Danger and Play
by laughingwarrior
Summary: Tig/OFC. Tig is bewitched by Desi, a woman unlike any he's known. But Desi's not nearly so interested. Once he finally persuades her to give him a try, they have a lot to work out. Set in same AU as my other stories, but should stand alone pretty well. Rated M for biker language and Tiggy lemons.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Though Desi is a pretty well-established secondary OC in my Juice stories, and though my AU is getting fairly dense by now, I hope that this story will stand alone sufficiently that new readers won't be lost. You might miss a bit of context, but nothing crucial or that won't fill in over time.

This being a Tig story, and Desi herself being sexually adventurous/sophisticated (not to mention bisexual, leaning to women), we're taking a walk on the wild side. We'll sample a range of sexual flavors here, rarely vanilla. Expect a lot of kink. Multiple partners, girl-on-girl, toys, rough play, general BDSM—all are possible.

In other words, it's rated M for very good reasons. If you only like your lemons sweet and gentle, this story probably won't be for you.

If you're a new reader, then I'll also warn you that my stories get very angsty, and often quite brutally violent. Tig is a veritable mother lode of pain and brutality, so I expect there will be plenty of angst and violence here. This wild side is on the dark side. Again, if fluff is more to your liking, I urge you not to proceed.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy. The rest is mine.

* * *

**_The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything._**

**~Nietzsche, "Thus Spoke Zarathustra"**

**CHAPTER 1:**

"Down," Stone Temple Pilots

She was making him work for it.

Tig leaned against the side of Juice's garage, his weight on his palm, his arm straight. The pose had him harkening back to high school, leaning against the lockers, looming over a sweet little thing, working his charms to convince her to embrace her wild side.

Desi wasn't a sweet little thing. She was a woman grown. Truth was, though her skin was smooth and firm, she was older than the women Tig usually aimed at—maybe only ten years or so younger than he was. Mid-forties. But she wore her years well; they gave her an air of wry experience instead of world-weariness. And man, he wanted to get some insight into her experience.

Only needed to look at her to know she'd embraced her wild side long ago: tight, curvy body snug in black leather—ample cleavage, lush hips, a waist fit for a man's hands. She was fully inked from wrist to neck—probably more, but that was all he could see. Ink on her face, even—a delicate, leafy vine trailing from jaw to temple on her left side.

Her hair was short and spiky, dyed a deep, glossy burgundy. Her eyes were hazel, a shifting kaleidoscope of green, brown, and gold. Her lips were lush, glossed in a shade of dark plum that looked positively delicious.

She was a sight to behold. And she was looking up at him with an expression he could only think of as maternally indulgent, as if he were a little boy showing her a new trick he'd learned.

In other words, far as he could tell, she was immune.

Intriguing.

Of course, when he'd first met her, at Frank's birthday party last spring, she'd just had her tongue down Frank's throat. That had shocked the shit out of him—he wouldn't have pegged Frank to swing both ways; she seemed pretty firmly attached to Juice's cock. Then, when Frank introduced him to Desi, and he'd tried out a line he thought was pretty good, she rebuffed him with a smile, indicating that she didn't swing his direction.

Usually. Without a friend. What she'd actually said was that she didn't _usually_ swing his way _without a friend_. At the implications and possibilities that statement had set loose in his head, his cock—which had filled out most of the way while he watched that lovely, womanly soul kiss—had turned into a granite pillar down the leg of his jeans.

He hadn't seen her again, though, not for almost a year, until he'd pulled up today and had seen her cherry '56 T-bird convertible already parked, big as life. She'd stood up with Frank as she married Juice, and Tig had hardly even looked at the happy couple. He'd spent the whole short ceremony staring at Desi, remembering her hands on Frank's ass as they kissed, and imagining his hands sliding that tight leather dress off those firm, colorful tits. He wondered whether the ink went right to her nipples.

He _had_ to get to know this woman. Carnally.

But she was making him work for it.

"It's just a ride, doll. You don't seem like the type to be scared of a bike ride." He leaned in, stopping just before his nose brushed hers.

Her grin was lopsided. He loved a lopsided smile. He leaned in a little more, hoping for a taste. Still smiling, she put the palm of her hand in the middle of his chest and held him off. Her hands were lovely, with long, shapely fingers. Her nails were short and neatly kept, polished a shade of dark plum that matched her lips. She wore some kind of silver and leather piece that was both bracelet and ring, connected with chain. "I think you'd be surprised to know how little I'm afraid of. This is more a question of _interest_. I see how hard you're trying, and I appreciate the effort, I do, but you haven't made me _interested_ yet. Biker scoring some new pussy? Just about a cliché around here. And I've told you before, it's gotta be a pretty interesting cock before I'm paying attention. Your cock that interesting?"

See, now, that was sexy, too, that directness, those eyes meeting his so coolly.

"Interesting is my stock in trade, doll. You want interesting, I can bring it."

She stood straight, pulling away from the garage wall. "Huh. Good to know. I'll keep it in mind. Now, it looks like Frank and Juice are heading inside to get started on their wedding night, and I've got a little something for them. Excuse me, Tig. Nice chat."

Watching her walk away, he turned and leaned heavily on the wall. Nice ass; good sway to it.

He wanted a bite.

He headed toward her car.

As he walked, he watched her give Juice a hug and then hand Frank something. Couldn't see what. Frank and Juice exchanged a look, and then Juice got the stupidest, shit-eating-est grin on his face and nodded. That kid was such an asshole.

By the time Desi was hugging Frank, Tig was leaning on her car, arms crossed over his chest. She wasn't getting away clean, that's for damn sure.

She turned and waved to someone; the garage was blocking his view to whom it was. She pointed to the driveway and then turned and started in Tig's direction. She saw him right away but didn't lose a beat; she just walked straight up to him.

"Your ass better not be scratching the finish. Something I can do for you?"

He stood straight, pushing off the car. "There is, beautiful. I got an idea there's a whole fucking world of things you can do for me. And vice versa, of course. It'd be _very_ interesting."

She turned a skeptical, considering eye on him, one eyebrow up, her mouth slanted in a knowing smirk. "You're a lot of talk. I'm guessing all that works on the kind of women who hang around your clubhouse. What do you call them? Frank told me—right, Crow Eaters. Clever. Me, though? Not much of a taste for Crow. And still not interested."

She put her hand on his chest to push him out of the way of her car door. Taking a different tack, he grabbed her arm and spun, putting her against the car. He was at least going to get a kiss. He'd just fucking take it if he had to, but he needed a damn taste.

She looked . . . unimpressed, still. Not even surprised. He came in hard for the kiss, not going to give her a choice. She let it happen. She even opened her mouth. Now that was more like it. Her lips were warm and pliant. Luscious. He pushed his tongue in to find hers.

And she bit the shit out of it. He reared back in surprise, but she held on for a half-second longer, and his mouth filled with blood. "Aah! Shit!" He spit onto the gravel drive.

That really fucking hurt. His tongue felt five sizes too big already, and his mouth was filling with blood again. This time, he just swallowed it.

He was so hard he thought he'd bust his fly. He met her eyes.

Wiping her mouth daintily, she said, "Sweetheart, I'm a top. You know what that means?" Of course he knew what it meant, but he was too transfixed to speak. "Means I'm a giver, not a receiver. I think you're better off finding yourself a nice dumb girl to eat your crow."

She looked past him just as he heard gravel crunching behind him. He swung around defensively. It was the big guy with the mohawk who'd married Frank and Juice. His name was Frog or something—no, Toad. His name was Toad. Hap knew him, too.

Toad nodded at Tig and walked to the passenger side of Desi's car. "Ready, lady?"

"I am, Toad. You say goodbye to our girl?" She opened the driver's door and got in.

Toad laughed. "Nah. They're already going at it inside. Window's open. Quite a show. Audio only, but worth the admission."

Desi laughed, her head thrown back. It was a good laugh. Tig was going to have to find a place to stick his cock soon, or he was going to end up with some kind of hernia.

Without another glance at Tig, Desi made a three-point turn and headed down the driveway, off to who knew where.

Tig spit blood again and pulled the prepay out of his pocket. He dialed.

No answer for several rings, then, "Fuck! What?" Juice was panting.

"Tell me about Frank's friend—Desi." Talking hurt his tongue. He was starting to like it—a reminder of that kiss.

"Are you shitting me? You fucking called the prepay? To ask about Desi? _Now_? Fuck you, Tig. Asshole." The call ended.

He dialed again. Gotta answer the prepay.

And Juice did. "I swear to God I will shoot you where you stand." Again the call ended.

Grinning now, he dialed again. This time it just rolled to voice mail. Fucker turned the prepay off.

Well, shit. Tig spit again—less blood now—and gimped off, his cock still a damn pipe in his jeans, to find a place to put it.

He wandered around, checking out the stock. There was a fucking dearth of available pussy at this wedding. It's like they were _trying_ to make it hard for a guy to get a piece. Wasn't a wedding supposed to be a _good_ place to nail chicks? Probably fucking Frank's idea. Shit.

Well, if the girls weren't here, maybe they were at the clubhouse. Otherwise, he was going to have to get himself a couple of hookers. The thought of paying for it pissed him off, though, so there'd better be somebody around.

Still fully erect and really damn uncomfortable, he mounted his Dyna and headed back to town.

-oOo-

He was still hard as he dismounted in the T-M lot. No surprise—riding always made him hard anyway, and he'd spent the whole time thinking about that illustrated vixen.

She bit him. Not a love bite, either. She went for meat. He found that electrifying.

And he owed her one. She said she was a top. Good for her. So was he. But he'd try anything once. Top, bottom, sideways, backwards, upside down, inside out. He was very flexible. So to speak.

As he walked to the clubhouse, he checked the cars in the lot. Score—there were a few cars, which probably meant a few girls. One of them was Junie; he knew her little blue compact. He liked Junie. She had stamina. And loose joints. He probably should have just brought her to the damn wedding, but bringing a piece of ass to a wedding was just asking for trouble. She'd think it was a date or some shit, and then a perfectly game fuck would start with that look, that "where's my crow" look, and then he'd be down one perfectly game fuck. To hell with that shit.

He went in and was hit by a wall of potent scent—bleach, Pine-Sol, fabric softener, other assorted smells of cleaning. Aw. These girls had been here cleaning while everybody else was off at the wedding. That was sad. He grinned. They'd need some cheering up.

He saw Junie and Deanna, and another girl he'd seen around recently but hadn't met yet. Not usually his first choice—she was more Phil or Bobby's groove, a little heavy and jiggly for him. But tonight he was dying under the weight of this fucking hard-on and feeling especially open minded. Three girls was just about the right dose.

"Look at all my little Cinderellas doing the wash while there's a ball going on."

Junie looked over and smiled. She pushed a loose hank of hair off her brow. "Hey, Tiggy. What're you doin' here?"

He grabbed her arm and pulled her close, giving her tit a good squeeze. "Looking for you, doll. Looking for you."

Deanna came up and ran her hands over his back. "You looking for anybody else?"

Looking over his shoulder at her, he winked, "You know me, pussycat. I'm looking for it all." She wrapped her hands around his waist.

He nodded to the girl whose name he didn't know. "What's your name, doll?"

"Kay." With a nervous glance at him, she kept folding the sheet she was working on. He wondered if she was just new and a little shy, or if she wasn't into what he was putting together. Or if she'd heard about him. Sometimes he'd let the skittish ones off the hook, but tonight the thought of freaking her out was particularly appealing. "Well, get over here."

She didn't move right away. Skittish. Yep, appealing. Deanna piped up. "Come on, Kay. Remember what we talked about."

Kay set the folded sheet down and walked over. "What are we doing?"

"Playing, baby. We're playing. Let's go." He let loose of Junie and put his arm across Kay's shoulders. A bit fleshy, but not too bad. He headed for the apartment, Kay in hand, Junie and Deanna right behind.

By now he was getting used to the perma-erection, so he took off his rings and stretched out on the bed. He had them undress each other as he watched. Junie and Deanna knew how to play it up. This Kay girl, though, needed some education. She was going to get lots of it tonight.

They got on the bed with him. He pushed Deanna and Junie together; they knew what he wanted and started in on each other. Kay sat back on her heels at his side. With one hand, he opened his jeans; his other hand he wrapped around the back of her neck and pushed. "You can start right there, doll."

She did, and she was good. He was starting to understand why she was still around. He reached out and slid his hand between Junie's thighs, moving up until he found her clit and pinched. Nice and wet, soaking his hand. She was wrist-deep in Deanna's pussy while Deanna worked her nipples. They were making lovely, lovely sounds, mouth to mouth, and Kay was getting nice and deep on him. He groaned and abruptly fisted Junie. She gasped and tossed her head back. This is what he liked about her—she could fucking take it. Her muscle tone was good, too. Even though she could take something like his fist, she could still clench his cock.

He wondered if Desi could take it like this. He bet she could. _Fuck_. He was trying to get his mind off her. He was here with a pussy smorgasbord. _Head in the game, asshole, head in the game._

He yanked his fist out and grabbed Kay by the hair, pulling her off him. Getting up on his knees, he slapped Kay's ass and said "Ass up, doll." She swallowed and looked at him but didn't move.

"Don't make me say it twice."

She moved then. While she was getting situated, he got between Junie and Deanna and put his tongue down Junie's throat and his fingers up Deanna's gash. His tongue still fucking hurt, and he suddenly was kissing Desi again.

"Fuck!"

Junie ran her fingers through his hair. "What is it, Tiggy?"

He changed his mind and pulled everybody off the bed. He got himself a little chain going, having the girls arrange themselves so that Junie was straddling Deanna's face, and Kay was face down in Deanna's pussy. Then he knelt behind Kay, rolled on a condom, and went deep.

She was soft and wide, bent over like this, but her pussy was deep and hot and really fucking tight. It felt so goddamn good to finally be in one—and one this fine!—that he just let himself go, grabbing her meaty hips and slamming into her with abandon. He heard her grunting and considered whether he'd make an effort to get her off.

Sure; what the hell. Still drumming his hips against her ass, he reached for her clit. She gasped and pulled her head up, away from Deanna. He pushed down on her shoulder. "Keep working, doll. Keep working."

The chorus of feminine moans and gasps was getting more robust. He picked up the tempo of his hips and his fingers. He looked up to see Junie and Deanna both working their own breasts. He could hear Kay whimpering into Deanna's flesh, and then she was bucking back against him. He came hard, with a wrenching groan.

He wasn't done, though. He had a lot of tension to work off and three girls at his disposal. It was daylight before he told them to get out. He was drifting off to sleep, face down diagonally across the bed, as they dressed and left the room. He opened one eye and saw Kay closing the door. "Good girls. Love you."

He slept, sated. And dreamed of an inked vixen with sharp teeth.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Light bondage, girl-on-girl here. In some detail. As I said, this story is walking the wild side.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 2:  
**"Shitlist," L7

Desi stepped out of the elevator, adrenaline still bubbling in her veins. Holy hell, she hated local government asswipes. She strode through the lobby, smiling at the guard on her way out, maintaining her outer cool. She pulled her phone out of her briefcase and dialed Samantha.

She answered right away. "Hey, baby. You want me?"

"I do."

"Rough meeting?"

"I am so sick of dealing with that crowd of dripping dicks. Fuck, I was _not_ in the mood for that dance today. But it went fine. I'll get the permits, contingent on closing the deal. But I need to work some of this shit off. Be there in ten minutes." Desi was at her car; she tossed her case on the passenger seat and got in.

"You know I will. We playing?"

Play would be nice, but today, Desi was first and foremost a businessperson. With an agenda. "No time. I'm meeting with the mayor this afternoon. I just want a fuck."

Samantha didn't say no; that was part of their deal. "Meet you there."

As she drove, she played through the meeting in her mind. She was working a deal to buy the building next door to hers. The current owner was a fucking slumlord, right in the middle of Midtown Sacramento, and sharing a wall with him had been a pain in her ass for a decade now. He was looking to sell, but now that she'd made an offer and he knew he had an interested party, he was being a hairy shitball about it. She was about to set Toad on him and be done with it.

But today's meeting had been about what she wanted to do with it when she got it. The city council was looking to boost the nightlife image of the city, and they were pushing hard for her to expand her club and, in their words, "freshen it up." Her punk club. Freshen it up.

Idiots.

She intended to keep the new building as it was, basically, with some major restoration. There were solid tenants there—a small law firm, a floor of doctors, a lobbying firm, a nice, old-fashioned custom menswear shop on the street level. The building had good, early-20th-century architecture, and she liked its vibe. But the city fathers didn't want lawyers and haberdashers. They wanted hipsters. Because they were idiots, they thought her club was a logical choice to draw hipsters. Or could be, with some "freshening up."

Two hours this morning. Two hours with those gaping assholes to persuade them that the renovated building would be "retro" (God, she hated that word) and that hipsters loved retro. Plus—haberdashery. Think of all the hats! Hipsters love hats! The dance made her sick. She missed the days when she'd just shove a Doc up their collective ass and spit in their collective face. But now she was a Businessperson. A Mover. A Shaker. A Respected Member of the Community.

If she were being honest with herself, her punk days were behind her. Now she just gave the punks a place to party.

At least she had the satisfaction of watching it dawn on them that the woman with the tattoo on her face, who owned that awful club where the scary people went, had totally disabled every one of their arguments and won the day. And then she'd gotten it in writing. For what little that would be worth if there was even one more snag.

She pulled into her parking spot and went into her building. The club was in the basement. Her apartment was on the fifth floor. The tenants of the intervening floors were lawyers, accountants, and an architect, whom she needed to get with soon to discuss renovation plans again.

She got into the elevator—a lovely, old-fashioned brass thing—and put her key in to unlock 5.

Samantha was waiting for her. Naked. Well done. Desi put her case on the table by the door and kicked off her stilettos.

Samantha wasn't a lover, per se. She certainly wasn't a girlfriend. There was nothing romantic between them at all. She was a friend, a good one, but that had almost no bearing on what she was when they got together like this. Samantha liked to be dominated. She especially liked to be bound. Desi liked to dominate. Both were bisexual. When they had romantic relationships, Samantha preferred hers with men; Desi with women. They didn't even have what one might consider a formal dom/sub arrangement; neither of them was looking for something so . . . _arranged_. It was just play. But this thing they had worked, separate from their friendship, and no strings—well, except the ones Desi wrapped around her.

Striding toward her, long and lean, Samantha asked, "Where do you want me?"

Desi checked the time. She had to be back out the door in an hour. There might actually be time to do a _little_ playing. "Bed." She turned Samantha around and pushed her down the hall.

Instructing her to lie on her back on the bed, her head at the foot, Desi pulled up the leather cuffs that were always attached to the bed posts. Samantha smiled. "I thought you didn't want to play."

Shrugging, Desi fastened the cuffs to Samantha's wrists and ankles so that she was spread wide. "There's play, and then there's this. I want you still." Samantha chuckled and stretched a little. "I said still," Desi reminded her.

"Sorry."

"And quiet." Samantha shut up.

Desi stripped to her skin, which was barely like being naked, in her case. She'd gotten her first ink when she was 15. Now, more than 30 years later, her skin was entirely covered, front, back, and sides, from her collarbone to her hipbones, shoulders to wrists. The only bare skin in that range, other than her armpits, was on her nipples—but she'd thought about it and might still. She had the ink on her face, and on her scalp, too, though her days of showing that were probably in the past. She'd never inked her legs or feet and wasn't sure she would. For some reason, it didn't much appeal to her.

Samantha's skin, on the other hand, was as pure as the day she was born—which was rather more recently than Desi. She was a very fair natural blonde, and her nipples were small and petal pink. She looked like she'd bruise if you blew on her.

But she wouldn't.

She had a penchant for getting artsy with her pubic hair, and today it was shaped like a little yellow heart. Desi rolled her eyes. She walked over to a tall cabinet at the side of the room—a big antique, mahogany piece—and opened it. Considering for a moment, she pulled out a remote control rabbit vibrator and a chained set of nipple clamps. She grabbed some flavored lube, too, just in case.

She set the toys on the bed and stood at the foot, Samantha's head against her thighs. She leaned over and ran her hands over her soft skin, feeling it quiver a little at her touch. For just a few minutes, she caressed lightly from thighs to scalp, getting all the nerves up and dancing. Then she massaged concentric circles over Samantha's small breasts until she reached the nipples. She pinched them sharply, and Samantha arched.

"Still." Samantha relaxed immediately and was still, even as Desi pinched and twisted harder. The most exciting thing about this kind of play was forcing her partner to control seemingly uncontrollable reactions. The kind of focus it took led to one hell of a release when Desi was ready to allow it. Today, she was feeling especially turned on by the scenario.

She straightened and picked up the clamps, attaching them to Samantha and tightening them just to the point of distention. She gave the chain a little pull. Samantha's eyes widened, but she didn't move. Well done. She leaned over and slid her hands over the soft yellow heart, pushing her fingers between Samantha's folds. Nice and wet. No need for lube. She flicked her fingers over her clit, and Samantha twitched. Desi straightened and gave the chain a sharper pull. She met Samantha's eyes and shook her head.

Samantha was actually a very good bottom. If she wanted to, she would be perfectly still on command, no matter what Desi did. Today, reading Desi's needs, she was pushing.

Now Desi inserted the vibe, going deep and making sure Samantha's clit was caught firmly between the ears. She picked up the remote and turned it on, starting at a low setting. Samantha gasped, and Desi turned it off. "Quiet. Still and quiet. You know this."

Desi knelt on either side of Samantha's head and lowered herself onto her face. She turned the vibe back on and said, "Eat me out. I go first. Don't you go before me." She felt Samantha's tongue on her clit and closed her eyes.

Samantha was good, and Desi needed this, so she could feel that it was going to go faster than she wanted. She turned the vibe up to medium and saw Samantha's lower body clench hard. Good. Her tongue sped up, and now she was sucking, too. Desi lifted up a little, an inch or so, easing the pressure, bringing herself back a bit. She took the chain in her free hand and pulled it back toward her, stretching Samantha's nipples. She didn't move, though, this time. So Desi gave the chain, still pulled back, several short, sharp tugs. And then Samantha arched, just slightly.

Desi turned off the vibe and lowered down again, giving Samantha full access. Okay, this was fucking good. This was what she needed. She turned the vibe on high and Samantha's whole body went rigid, but she didn't make a sound or move anything but her face. Desi flexed hard, coming emphatically, her head dropping back.

She stood. Samantha looked like she was going to explode, her fair skin deeply flushed, her muscles tense and shaking, but she hadn't come yet. The vibe was still going like a jackhammer; she cycled it down. "Good girl. You want me or the vibe? Tell me."

"You," she gasped. Good. Desi walked to the side of the bed and pulled the vibe out. She released the clamps and gently laved each nipple with her tongue. Finally, she went down on her, pausing at the last second before her mouth touched Samantha's clit to say, "Have at it, sweetheart."

Samantha, still bound on the bed, came screaming and writhing, almost immediately, and for a long time.

When Desi left for her meeting with the mayor, it was with a renewed sense of patience and purpose.

-oOo-

"There's my girl!" Desi stood up from the table and gave Frank a hug. They sat down together. "Married life suits you, sweets. You look good!"

The server came up to take Frank's drink order and leave menus. When he walked away, Frank said, "Yeah. Things are fucking great right now. Makes me a little scared, to be honest. Everything's so quiet and good."

It had taken Frank and Juice a long, long time to find some balance and build something good on it. Frank especially had been through the ringer, to the point of attempting suicide, but she was strong now and looked happy.

"If trouble wants you, it'll find you. No need to go looking. Just be happy." She squeezed Frank's hand. Desi wasn't a maternal woman. She'd never had even the teensiest twitch about being a mother. But she felt maternal toward Frank, damn if she didn't. Ever since she'd shown up at her club, underage, carrying around a chip the size of Australia.

Of course, considering how intimately they knew each other, maybe "maternal" wasn't the ideal word. But Desi didn't have a better one.

"So, tell me about this big honeymoon. Did you take in a Broadway show? The Lion King, perhaps?"

Frank rolled her eyes. "Oh, totally. Went every fucking night. Twice on Sunday." She laughed. "_Please_—though we did heckle theatergoers one night. That was fun."

The server came for their order. When he left again, Desi asked for real details about Frank and Juice's honeymoon in New York City, and Frank chattered happily. They talked throughout their lunch, Desi asking questions to get more story. She listened, pleased to hear the ease in Frank's voice. She really did seem happy. About damn time.

They were drinking their after-meal coffee, and Desi was talking about her plans for the new building. She was finally in escrow, had all her contingent permits in place, and the contractors lined up.

Frank said, "I'm glad you got them to back off about changing the club. I can't imagine it any different. That place is a fucking institution. Hey—after your little last-minute wedding gift, Juice has been singing a different tune about rolling at the club again. How'd you feel if we came by one night?"

Their friendship was much deeper than sex, but Desi and Frank had played together for several years, usually when Frank was at the club, rolling on the molly that Desi offered to special friends. For a long time, she could only have sex while on MDMA, with Desi—and occasionally with other girls, too. She'd been dosed and passed around in high school, and she'd had major trust issues, especially with men, so she stuck to molly and to women, even though she identified straight.

But then she'd met Juice. When they'd started seeing each other, she'd brought him to the club, and the three of them had played together a few times. But then Juice had decided he was jealous, and for a while, Desi barely saw Frank at all.

"I don't know, sweets. Juice doesn't deal with that nearly as well as I think he'd like to. I don't want to rock his boat and end up not seeing you again." Frank looked dejected, and Desi relented a little. "Your call, though. You know him better than I do."

Frank nodded; of course she'd understand, but Desi also knew that she wanted this. "I'll talk to him some more. I think deep down he wants to be a freak. Oh, speaking of which: Tig is driving him crazy asking about you. I don't know what you did, but you bewitched that asshole."

Desi found that delightful. In the weeks since the wedding, she hadn't spared much of a thought for him, but she very much enjoyed the idea that he was obsessing about her. "Okay, tell me about him. You called him a pervy ass once. Pervy like me, or something else? He definitely vibes like he's a top, which is obviously problematic."

"I try not to know too much about Tig, honestly. He and Juice don't get along well at all—though it's been a lot better recently. He got shot and almost died last year, and he seems slightly less of an asshole since then. But as for his perviness, he's got a rep in the clubhouse as the freakiest of them all, and Juice told me he's fucked corpses and animals."

Not remotely the weirdest thing Desi had ever heard of. "That sounds dom, among other things. But he didn't blink when I told him I was."

"I think he's a kitchen sink kind of guy—anything goes." Frank took a sip of her coffee. Desi could tell she wasn't enjoying this topic, but hell, she'd brought it up.

And now, Desi was finding some possible interest. "That's the most interesting thing anyone's said about him, actually. Now I'm kind of intrigued. What about his cock?" If she was going to go with a guy, he'd better have a good one. A really good one.

Frank sat back with a sigh. "Des, can I just tell you how very glad I am that I can't answer that question for you? And also how very much I want to not be talking about this anymore? I so don't need these kinds of Tig images in my head. He's not my favorite person on the planet."

"Sorry, sorry. You know, I'm not looking for a mate here, just something different. I like the idea that he's fixated. I could use that. Hmm. Okay, I might want to take him around the course once. Just to see. Invite me sometime, someplace he'll be."

Frank threw up her hands. "Jesus. Fine. But just promise me you won't get him naked at my house. I'll have to burn it down or something."

Desi tossed her head back and laughed. "Oh, little Frank. My girl. Don't go and turn into a prude on me now that you're married!"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Tig gets a bit inappropriate here. Because, you know, he's Tig. Special thanks to MuckyShroom and Simone Santos for helping me work this chapter out.

And thank you, as always, for reading, reviewing, following. This is bound to be a crazy ride, and I'm glad for the company!

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 3  
**"I Wanna Be Your Dog," The Stooges

Tig took his piece back to his bike and locked it in his saddlebag. One good thing about Juice moving to the middle of bum-fuckin'-nowhere was that they had a decent place for a shooting range now.

And it was a great place to hang out, truthfully. Pretty and quiet. Private. Juice was an asshole most of the time, but he was a lucky asshole.

All the Sons, plus Tara and the boys, Viv and tiny little Hope, and Gemma and Nero, were hanging out in the yard. Same place they'd had the wedding a couple of months ago. Frank didn't cook, so Gemma had brought a couple of 'Eaters along to cook and serve. Definitely not the pick of the crop, though. Tig was beginning to think there was an old lady conspiracy going on. Worthwhile, available pussy was a rare breed lately when the Sons got together anywhere but the clubhouse.

He headed back to the yard, where Juice and Chibs were fussing over the meat on the grill. Viv and Tara were talking; Viv had Hope on her shoulder and was rocking side to side. He walked over.

"Let Uncle Tig get a handful of Hope." He put his hands on the cute little thing's back. She was nodding off.

Viv turned and looked at him. "Hands?"

Tig showed her his clean hands. Women with babies were the same everywhere. Some weird combination of drill sergeant and nun schoolteacher.

Viv handed Hope over. "Don't go far."

"Yes, mom." He tucked his little niece into the crook of his arm and walked over to the glider. She fell asleep within seconds of him sitting down.

Hap came out of the house with a glass of ice water and a beer. He brought the water to his old lady. Viv gestured at Tig, and Hap turned and walked his way.

"What are _you_ doing with my kid?"

Tig was offended. "Fuck! I'm just sitting here rocking her. She's sweet. I like babies. What—you think I'm gonna do something nasty?"

Hap laughed. "Nah, brother. I just don't want you to get distracted by passing pussy and drop her or something."

Tig grumbled. "No distracting pussy around."

"True enough—for you, anyway. I'm plenty distracted." He was looking Viv's way.

He loved Viv, and she and Hap had gone through some epic shit, but he still couldn't believe Hap had settled down. "Aw, man. Do not lift your skirt and show me the chain she's got through your dick. It hurts me."

He'd pushed that point a little far. The look Hap turned on him Tig knew well—it meant ring time, usually. No ring here, though. "Careful, brother. That's my old lady. Watch yourself."

"Yeah. Sorry." He needed a drink. "Want your kid?" Hap set his bottle on the ground and took his daughter. Hope started to rouse and fuss, so when Tig stood, Hap sat and started moving the glider. Jesus. The Killa. Sitting in a lawn glider, rocking his three-month-old daughter, who was wrapped in a pink blanket with little white bunnies.

Jesus.

He needed something strong than beer. He went inside to the bar they had set up in their dining room and poured himself a tall glass of Jack.

On his way out, he heard a car pulling up the drive. He turned—not actually curious, but why the hell not look—and saw a cherry '56 T-bird convertible, red with white interior, top down, and a sight to behold behind the wheel. Desi. Hot damn. It had been three months. He stopped dead and stared as she got out of her car.

She was wearing jeans, black boots, and an absolutely magnificent black leather top that looked like a motorcycle jacket but was sleeveless and fucking low cut. She leaned over the seat, and he saw that the top was backless, too. And she was all ink, everywhere he could see but her neck and hands.

This cookout was suddenly looking way up. _Way_ up.

He was standing on the patio, just outside the door. She walked right up to him, her expression pleasant but noncommittal.

He stepped into her path as she walked up. "Hey, doll. Missed you."

"Hi, Tig. How's the tongue?" She smiled, but, again, the look was only pleasant. She might as well have been talking to an old lady in line with her at the market. Still walking, she sidestepped, but he mirrored her and stayed in her path. She stopped.

In answer to her question, he stuck his tongue out and curved it up, flicking it suggestively. "Ready for action."

"Well, good. Hope you find some, then. Frank inside?"

He nodded, trying to think of a comeback, and she took the opportunity to move around him. She opened the door and went in. He stared at that beautiful, artful back as she crossed the threshold and closed the door.

Okay. She still wanted to play like she wasn't interested. She was good at it, too. He needed to think this through. His glass was empty, though, so first thing—he needed another drink.

Now the house was fucking full of women, only one of them of any real interest to Tig. What was it about women that they always clustered around together like hens? Even women who didn't like each other—old ladies and sweetbutts, for instance—all in a clucky circle. He didn't get it. But Desi was in the middle of it, too, so he wasn't going to make any progress now. He went back out to the yard, where at least the conversation would be interesting.

The afternoon passed; everybody ate. Most people got drunk. Viv and Bobby played some guitar and sang together. Hope got passed around like a football, even most of the Sons taking their turn getting cuddly with Hap's kid. Distracted as he was, and as loathe as he was to give Juice any fucking credit, Tig had to admit that it was a decent time.

Eventually, as the sun dwindled into dusk, Jax and Tara packed up Abel and Thomas and headed home. Tig had yet to get Desi alone. He'd ended up spending the bulk of the afternoon pretending not to watch her.

She was fucking amazing. She carried herself like she was completely confident, self-aware but not self-conscious. She had a great, sexy laugh, so full-throated is was almost masculine. But it wasn't. Every time she laughed, his balls tightened—and she laughed a lot.

He'd watched her make the rounds. She and Frank had talked a lot. She and Hap had what looked like a deep conversation about ink, showing and comparing their pieces. If Tig was right, then Desi had considerably more ink than Happy; she was solid, colorful ink almost everywhere he could see. Really beautiful work, too. His mind reeled, his balls tightened, and his cock swelled. All day fighting a hard-on.

Jesus.

Not that Desi would have noticed. She didn't ignore him; she just didn't pay him any attention. She sat down with him, Chibs, and Bobby and joked around for some time. She had a ribald sense of humor. She also drank her beer straight out of the bottle, her hand wrapped around the neck just right. Tig loved that, and he swallowed hard every time she put the bottle to her mouth. He wished all women would understand how fucking sexy that was.

He got a little jealous—jealous!—when Chibs was clearly flirting with her. She told Chibs the same thing she'd told him—that the 'Eaters in the kitchen had a better chance with her. He recognized the look in Chibs' eyes—and in Bobby's. Those words were never going to dissuade a Son. Especially not coming out of a body like that.

As far as he'd seen, she'd barely glanced in his direction, though, which was irritating. But he was getting into those jeans tonight. He had a plan.

The Crow Eaters were back in the kitchen, cleaning up. Things were settling down to a low rumble outside. This was a family party, not a Friday blowout, so the drunks got quiet instead of rowdy. Hap, Juice, Phil, Chibs, and Bobby were sitting at a table, drinking beers and talking seriously. Tig knew he should get over there and see what was up, but Hap had been tense with him since he'd made that crack earlier, and he didn't feel like dealing with that sour asshole right now. If it were really important, Jax would call them to church.

And anyway, his moment had arrived. Desi was going inside, alone. He gave her a second and then followed her in.

She was heading down a short hall to the bathroom. He waited, and when she came out, he pulled her into the living room. As intent on Desi as he was, he still had a second to think, as he always did when he came into their house, that Frank and Juice were the biggest nerds he'd ever known. One whole wall was nothing but a huge TV and other electronic shit, and hundreds of DVDs and video games. There was a cardboard cut-out of some Star Wars soldier or whatever standing by the front door. Assholes. What were they—ten?

That thought took a fraction of a second; Desi was still wrenching herself out of his grip. She got herself loose, but she didn't do it angrily or with fear. Just firmly.

"Is there something you need, Tig?"

"You know there is, doll. And it's right here." He pushed his hand between her thighs. Time to just get the fuck to it. This bitch wanted interesting. He'd show her all sorts of interesting. His cock went rigid as his hand felt her heat through her jeans.

She didn't react at all, except for the slightest tick upward of one corner of her mouth. Then, she put her hands on his shirt and started working the buttons open, until it gaped to his waist. She slid her hands in and gently combed through the dark down on his chest. His eyes closed for a moment, and he curled his fingers up against her.

"You like that?" She asked, her voice suddenly husky. Yes. Yes, he liked that very much. He liked even more the thought of getting his fingers inside her hot pussy. And then his cock. He'd start with her pussy, anyway.

"You know I do, doll. Can't you tell?" He leaned in close and flexed against her.

Her expression unchanged, still with that Mona Lisa smile, she set him back slightly and pushed one hand down, under his waistband, around his cock. He rarely wore underwear; he liked to range free. She gave him a hard squeeze, and he gasped. He was so fucking hard. It had been a while since somebody had gotten him this stirred up.

Not since Venus. Venus had been very interesting.

His heart was pounding. "Come on, baby. Tell me what you want."

She pulled her hand out of his jeans and put it in her own mouth, licking her fingers. _Oh, hell_. Then she took his hand by the wrist and pulled it out from between her legs, bringing it to her mouth. She sucked his fingers, slowly, one by one. He felt shaky.

And then he was face-first against the wall, his arm behind his back. He had no idea what had just happened. Desi had that arm in both hands, and she was leaning on it hard enough that his shoulder was raising a stink.

In those boots, she was only a couple of inches shorter than he was, so she could whisper in his ear when she said, "I told you what I want. You're a cliché, Tig. You're gonna have to do better. You're gonna have to make me _interested_ before I look your way. Nice cock, though." She released him and walked away.

He turned around and leaned back against the wall, rolling his shoulder, trying to process. In the meantime, Desi said her goodbyes and left. He didn't try to follow. He was at a loss.

He was also so horny he could almost hear his cock screaming. He headed to the kitchen. Maybe not the pick of the crop, but a pussy was a pussy right now. And anyway, Kay was in there, and she had a good one.

Gemma stopped him in the doorway. "Uh-uh, Tigger. Turn that horny ass around right now. These girls have work to do."

He stood there, unwilling to walk away from pussy so close. Gemma pushed on him. "Out. Now. Don't piss me off, Tig. You know you don't want that."

Fuck. He didn't. He turned, shoulders slumping, and headed to the back door.

On his way, he saw Hope's fluffy pink blanket with the little white bunnies all over it. Stupid fucking blanket. He remembered Hap sitting there holding Hope while she was wrapped in it. That asshole was all kinds of whipped these days.

It was sitting on the table, forgotten. It had a satin border. The whole thing looked soft. He picked it up. It _was_ soft. It smelled nice, too. He got an idea. He looked around.

He took the blanket to the bathroom.

It really was soft. It worked well. He felt much better. But now he didn't know what to do with it. It's not like he could let Hope have it back. That was too weird even for him. Nope, he'd just ruined this blanket. Time to get rid of the evidence.

There was only a tiny little wastebasket in the bathroom, though, and he couldn't very well leave it where it would be easily found. He'd have to take it out to the garage and drop it in one of the big trash cans. Now to get out there without anyone noticing.

He wadded it up as small as he could and left the bathroom. Where he just about ran headlong into Hap.

"Sorry, brother. Hey, have you seen—" Tig had tried to move the blanket behind his back, but now Hap grabbed his arm and brought it forward. "What the fuck?"

"Naw, man, I—"

Understanding was dawning on Hap's face. "You sick fuck." He growled it, low.

A corresponding understanding was dawning in Tig's head. He was fucked. And not the way he'd hoped. Hap could kill him if he wanted to, and he looked like he wanted to. He was only an inch or so taller, but right now he loomed over Tig. And then Hap had him by the throat.

Tig was still trying to figure out how hard to fight back—he knew he was the guilty party here, but it was only a fucking blanket—when the first blow hit his eye socket.

Fucker still had his damn rings on. Yeah, okay.

It was on.

They tore down the hallway and into the living room. For every blow Hap landed, Tig sent one back. But Hap had lost it, and that rage was fueling some superhuman fucking power. Tig took a body blow and felt at least one rib give. He sent back an uppercut to Hap's jaw and knocked his friend back a couple steps.

In the tiny space that gave him, Tig yelled, "Back off, man. It's just a fucking blanket." Hap charged, putting his shoulder into Tig's agonized ribs and carrying them both into the TV wall. The TV crashed to the floor, as did they. Hap was on him, but Tig couldn't swing anymore. His ribs were on fire. At least he got his hands up over his face.

Then Hap was off him, being dragged back by Chibs and Juice. Lots of shouting, male and female. Gemma came to Tig and helped him up. "What was that all about, baby?"

Tig wiped the blood from his face. "Long story."

But then Frank picked up the blanket from the floor where Tig had dropped it. She looked at it oddly for a minute and then dropped it again. "Oh, fuck. No. Way. Oh, that is so gross. I bought her that, you asshole." She picked it up again, by the very edge and at arm's length, and carried it into the kitchen. To the trash, he assumed.

He was getting all kinds of weird looks. None of that bothered him. The look on Hap's face, though? That bothered him some.

All this over a piece of ass that wasn't even fucking interested.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 4:  
**"Sex and Candy," Marcy Playground

Toad and Big Frank were at the bar when Desi came in, Toad drinking a beer, the crossword puzzle page of the Sacramento Bee open in front of him, Big Frank setting out a few drink garnishes. He didn't need many; their crowd wasn't really the garnished drink type. But there would be the stray sightseer or newbie who'd ask for a martini or a Rum Collins or some such thing. They looked over as Desi walked up, and they said in unison, "Hey, boss."

"Gents. How they hangin'?"

Big Frank grinned. "Long, thick, and straight. Yours?"

"In my armoire," she deadpanned. This was their customary greeting. She loved her easy relationship with these guys—Big Frank, with his leathers and shiny bald head, Toad, 300 pounds of badass and a foot-high 'hawk. She was standing in front of them in her own leathers—black tank, leggings, and high boots—with her hair slicked back, and to them, she was just their boss. She'd made a specific kind of world for herself here, and she loved it.

Big Frank had been working with Desi since she'd opened the club almost ten years ago, and she trusted him enough to put the business in his hands whenever she travelled. She hadn't made him a partner, because she didn't want to give over that kind of control, but he was the best paid bartender in Sacramento, that was sure. Maybe even the state. Earned it, too.

Toad was a friend first; he'd come on as her head bouncer mainly recreationally. She paid him, of course, but he didn't do it for the money. His real gig was tattooer. He ran his own shop in Sac, and he had a huge regional following and a reputation as one of the best artists in the state. They'd met the obvious way; he'd done a lot of her ink. If you were of a mind, you could get really close to the person injecting ink into your skin continuously for hours at a time. By the third piece he'd done for her, they were fast friends, and she had another person for whom she had great trust.

But he was naturally aggressive, and bouncing gave him an outlet. Over the years, his reputation had grown to the point that his presence was largely dissuasive, and there were very few serious altercations—which was a primary reason Desi had political sway in the city. Her punks kept their shit together—or at least didn't spill it out onto the street. Toad had a room off the hall between the door and the club, and shit got "handled" there. As far as the city fathers knew, the club clientele looked scary, but they filled the club every night it was open and didn't make much trouble. While they were there, they paid for their parking spaces and ate at nearby diners, and abided at least the basic laws.

Today's punks were different from the punks Desi had run with, in other words. Less hooliganism, more hedonism. Less anarchy, more aesthetic.

She'd adjusted.

Big Frank handed her a chilled bottle of water as she sat on a stool next to Toad. She didn't drink at all in the club. Her job was to watch over her flock. So she stayed sober and straight—which she preferred, anyway. The few inhibitions she did have were really safety-oriented; no need to ease those.

"Raven here?" Raven was the other bouncer. Fairly new, and Desi wasn't sure about him. His name, for instance. Too arty and goth for her taste. Made her suspicious. But he was big and menacing, and Toad seemed to think he had him in hand.

Toad answered her question. "Got a text about 10 minutes ago; said he's running late, but he's coming. Should be here before doors open."

"Good." I've got Andrea coming in, too, to help in back. Friday before classes start on campus—I expect our usual horde of sightseers, so I'll need to be on the floor most of the night." She looked at Big Frank. "You call in any troops?" She let him handle bar scheduling.

"Nikki and Beth. Got 'em coming in around nine, when things warm up a little." He filled out extra garnishes as he talked.

She smirked. Smart boy, calling in both hotties for the college boys. Just then, the door opened, and Andrea walked in. Six feet tall, smooth, dark umber skin, hair cropped to her scalp. She was wearing a snug golden silk mini-dress and gold stilettos. Silver cuff bracelets were her only jewelry. She was stunning. She walked up to Desi and kissed her, her tongue going straight into Desi's open mouth. Toad and Big Frank paid no mind. Nothing they hadn't seen many times before.

Desi pulled back. "Hey, sweetheart. Thanks for helping out tonight."

"Happy to do it. I like your playroom." She sat down and Big Frank mixed her a vodka tonic. Andrea wasn't a punk. But she was a player. And Desi's back room was for playing. Safely.

-oOo-

A couple of hours later, the club was jumping. Desi was walking the floor, making contact with regulars, keeping an eye out for underagers—who almost invariably might as well be walking around with blinking antennae on their heads, they were so obvious. The music was loud and high-octane, a mix of classic punk, hardcore, industrial and thrash; her DJ, Mike, was working it hard. The dance floor was a writhing mass.

All kinds of dancers here: skankers, thrashers, bangers, you name it. She noticed a couple of regulars dancing especially sensually together. She invited them to her playroom; they grinned and nodded. First-timers were only invited if someone she knew well vouched for them, regulars still needed an invite, though, which they got in this way.

She walked the couple to the back door and sent them in. Andrea was in there, taking care of the four couples already playing. Desi noticed that the pairings were starting to blur. She smiled and headed back to the floor.

A bit after midnight, Big Frank caught her eye—she had a phone call. She went back to the playroom, where the soundproofing would make it possible to take it.

In the sudden near-silence of the playroom, she answered.

"Hey, Desi." It was Frank—little Frank. Unlike her to call like this. Desi could hear the sounds of a party in the background—music, yelling, laughter, pool cues hitting balls.

"What's up sweets? Problem?"

"Not sure. You know how Juice's mouth tends to run, right?"

She did. For an outlaw biker, he was a shitty secret-keeper. "Keep it comin', Frank."

"We're at the clubhouse, Friday night party. Juice got drunk."

Desi was getting impatient. What the fuck was the problem? But she played on. "Thought he didn't get drunk anymore."

"Well, he did, and anyway, I'll skip to the spoiler: I'm pretty sure Tig is on his way to the club."

Well, that was an interesting development, and not part of her plan. She sighed. "Okay. Thanks for the alert."

"Sorry, Des."

"It's fine, sweets. Just need to work out what to do with him. I'll talk to you later." She hung up and went back onto the floor. She'd have to think out there.

After her last encounter with Tig, a few weeks earlier, she'd thought about him quite a lot more than she had before. His eyes were intense, and an almost unnatural blue—a lot like Frank's, in fact, though hers were even lighter. She liked his craggy, unkempt look. She liked his size—in the room and in his pants. He had a worthy cock.

Desi had been much more interested and turned on than she'd let him believe. If he'd put his hands _inside_ her jeans, he would have had some clue. But he hadn't, and she had been able to carry out her little play, getting him stirred up and walking away smoothly. Frank told her later that there had been a fracas, with him at the center; Desi had felt smug satisfaction at the news.

She definitely wanted to take Tig 'round, but she'd held off. Not one to tell herself fables, she was quite clear about her reasons. The first was because she had a plan. He was obviously dominant, and she had only in extremely particular circumstances switched. This circumstance did not at all warrant that kind of accommodation. She wasn't _that_ fucking interested. No, if either of them was switching to sub, it would be him. So there was a dance to do; he had to want it enough to come to her and beg.

Maybe that's what was happening now. If so, it was a lot sooner than she'd anticipated. Which meant he was also impulsive.

Dominant and impulsive was a dangerous combination.

Which brought her to the second reason she'd held off any further moves in the dance. Desi generally preferred women, but there was one kind of man she preferred over anything. In fact the _only_ kind of man who did it for her: Wolf. Alpha. Big, messy, violent. _Dominant and impulsive_. She laughed to herself. She knew firsthand how dangerous a combination it was.

Especially in further combination with someone like her. Because she didn't submit.

She didn't know Tig anywhere near well enough to know how far he'd go. She knew herself well enough to know how far she'd go, and somebody could really get hurt. And not in a playful, consensual way. So she had to think about what to do when he got here, if here was in fact his destination. She'd neglected to ask Frank how much time had passed between his leaving the clubhouse and Frank calling to let her know. The call had come in 15 minutes ago. Assuming she called right away (a solid assumption), and that Tig came straight here, Desi now had 30 minutes or so to figure out a plan.

Toad was working the door. She went out to talk to him. Then she talked to Big Frank.

-oOo-

Twenty minutes. She got a sign from Big Frank and turned around to see Tig coming through the door. It was only an hour or so before closing, so the crowd had thinned out to about half. It would keep dwindling until the lights went up. She stood where she was and watched him look around, locate her, take in her appearance, and walk straight to her, pushing people out of his way.

He really was a cliché.

He walked right up to her, grabbed her, and kissed her, shoving his tongue into her mouth. Aggressive as grabbing her and kissing her was, forcing his tongue into her mouth was the real power move, and she read it immediately. Daring her to bite him again, showing her he didn't care. Chest-thumping.

She didn't bite him again. Too predictable. She kissed him back, though, fully engaged, grabbing his hair in her fists and taking control of the kiss, her tongue forcing his to move to her rhythm. He grunted and released her.

"You want to bite me? Do it." He came in again, but she held him off. She was disappointed. No subtlety in the spoken dare. Ah, well. She hadn't expected him to be practiced at this game. He was intuitive, hedonistic. He did what felt good. He didn't think about it. A wolf.

"Come with me." She grabbed him by a wrist, her hand around the leather cuff he wore there. She'd noticed that he wore an embellished leather cuff on each wrist. She'd also noticed the rings, the silver chain around his neck, the way he'd unbuttoned an extra button on his shirt, showing the hair on his chest, the embellishments on his knife sheath—she turned to make sure he wasn't wearing it now; he wasn't. There was almost something . . . _glam_ . . . about him. But his edges were exceedingly rough.

Interesting.

He came willingly, probably expecting to be going somewhere he'd get laid. Not quite. She brought him back to the playroom, where two couples were still going at it. Andrea was playing lightly with one pair. Desi nodded to her, and she closed the top of her dress and went out onto the floor.

Tig took in the room, and Desi watched him. It was done in plush velvet and velour, all in reds and purples. There were big, accommodating sectional sofas and chairs built for two. The carpet was extra soft and gentle on skin. The ceiling was draped in silks. In this room, friends were invited to play. Desi offered them molly to enhance their play, should they want it. And most did. Sometimes things got a little intense in here, turning into a literal orgy, but anyone who rolled here did so consensually, in safety and security.

He turned to her, agape. Apparently Juice's verbal diarrhea hadn't included the playroom. "What is this?"

Her plan was still forming, so she proceeded carefully. "It's a playroom." Give the information out in drips. Make him work.

He gestured to the sofa where the two couples, oblivious to or unconcerned by the presence of others, were starting to merge. "What's going on with them?"

"They're rolling."

He turned back to her. "What?"

She smiled. He was showing his age. "They're on MDMA. You know what that is?"

"Yeah—Ecstasy, right?" Returning his gaze to the lovers. Becoming mesmerized.

"Not quite. I offer molly—it's purer than E. Less mania, more . . . sensation."

His head swiveled back, and his eyes lit up. Bullseye. Frank had told her he was a "kitchen sink" kind of guy. Anything goes. An experimenter, then. Thinking on the fly tonight, Desi had decided that getting him altered would adjust the power dynamic to her advantage. Looked like he was game.

"Have you ever done molly? Or E?"

He shook his head. "Crazy kid shit. Bullshit music and glow-in-the-dark toys. You sell it?"

Still smiling, she shook her head slowly and walked to the back of the room. She turned out a picture frame on the wall and opened a small safe. From the false floor of the safe, she pulled out a dose. "I don't sell it. I provide it. To friends."

Giving her a wolfish grin, he asked, "Am I a friend?"

"You could be. Do you want to roll?

"With you?"

She shook her head again. "I'll be here, but I don't roll. I watch over those who do. I take care."

"Isn't sex the whole point of E? Why would I do it alone?"

"There's more to _molly_ than sex, Tig. But I didn't say you weren't going to have sex."

He laughed—a chuckle deep in his chest. Cocky. "I knew you wanted it." He grabbed her hips and pulled her close. She let him.

"I'll fuck you. With some understanding between us." She put her hand on his chest.

Staring down at her hand on him, he asked, "What kind of understanding?"

"I'm working until the club closes—about an hour. If you want this dose, it's yours. Take it now. But you have to stay in this room until the club closes. You can't touch anyone but yourself. At all. I'll be taking care of you, so you have to do exactly what I say. If you can manage all that, then I'll take you upstairs."

"What's upstairs?"

"My bed. Among other things."

Grinning, he held out his hand, palm up. "Oh, doll, you have no idea what you're in for."

She grinned right back. Neither did he.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **Tig on MDMA, all amped up. These lemons grow wild—and cover the whole chapter.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy. I take credit/blame for the rest.

* * *

**CHAPTER 5  
**"Be Aggressive," Faith No More

Tig took the dose and swallowed it down with the bottled water Desi handed him. She indicated that he should sit down in a nearby chair; he did.

She pushed that water at him again. "Drink that—steadily, but not quickly. You'll probably find you need it." She kissed his cheek. He tried to turn into it and claim her mouth, but she pulled away too quickly. "You sit tight. You'll probably start feeling something in 15 minutes or so and be fully engaged within the hour."

He sat back in the deep, red velvet chair. He felt awfully "engaged" already. Fuck, what she was wearing! All in black leather—tight pants, tall, high-heeled boots, a sleeveless top that laced up the back. He could see the ink on her back through the lacings. He wanted to get his hands on her. His mouth. His tongue. His aching cock.

Now she gave him a little wink and walked away. He watched her ass sway in those fucking pants as she crossed the room and knelt before the knot of lovers there. What—was she—oh shit, she was.

The four people—two men, two women—fucking on that couch had drawn Tig's attention as soon as he'd entered the room. People were always fucking in public at the clubhouse, but for some reason he'd been surprised to see it happening here. The whole room surprised him, tucked in the back of this rough-looking club. He'd never seen anything like it. The word that came to his mind was sumptuous.

While he'd been in here, those four people had become one group, and they were now naked, but for the stray piece of underwear—one bra displaced, a pair of socks. And Desi had just knelt with them. He watched her brush the hair from one woman's face. That woman had seemed to lose the tempo of the group and was less involved than the other three. She turned into Desi's touch, and then she was kissing Desi, her hands encircling Desi's head. Tig felt the surge of his cock as even more blood rushed into it.

Everybody in the room but him was wound up in that clutch of bodies over there. Tig almost got up and tried to join in, but Desi had told him he could fuck her if he sat tight and didn't touch anyone. So he watched and ached. And started to sweat.

As the lovers tried to draw Desi deeper, grabbing at her clothes, pulling her in, she artfully stayed on the periphery, gently moving grasping hands to other bodies. Tig was impressed. She was like a facilitator or something.

He could see the ink on her skin moving as her muscles moved. There were flowers on her skin, and they danced. Swirls of color. They sparkled in the light, beams shooting from them like sunshine.

Wait. That was strange. Maybe the E or whatever it was—he searched for the name she'd called it but it was gone—was kicking in.

His mouth was a little dry, so he took a drink from the water bottle in his hand. As he raised his arm, he felt the soft scratch of the velvet chair against his arm, and it radiated into his crotch, making his balls vibrate. _Fuck_. He put his hand on the bulge in his jeans and felt the rough denim shift slightly on his cock.

Fuck, he could feel _everything_. One of the women across the room cried out in orgasm. The waves of sound washed over him; he could almost see them. And then he smelled the sweet, rich musk of her release.

He was panting; shit, he was _shaking_. He tried to take a deeper breath and control himself, but he felt the inhale itself in his cock. She said he couldn't touch anyone but himself. With the hand not holding the water bottle, he ripped open his belt and jeans, pulled his cock out, and started stroking.

He felt every. Fucking. Molecule of skin moving against skin. The rough of his hand shifting against the sensitive skin of his cock, the swell of his engorged tip, the wet. Holy fucking God, what was this shit he'd taken, and why the fuck would anybody ever come down from here?

He tried to watch the lovers across the room, but the visuals were too intensely hot. His brain couldn't handle it. So he lay his head back against the soft velvet of the chair and stroked himself. He felt. He smelled. He heard. Those were all the senses he could handle.

When he came, he thought his eyeballs were going to explode with the force. He looked up to see Desi walking toward him. He could hear the faint creak of her leather clothes. He realized that he had no idea where he'd shot his wad, but the most likely guess would be straight out, onto her fancy carpet. "Sorry."

She laughed. His balls clenched at the vibration, and his cock went rigid again. "No worries. Happens all the time. Room gets a thorough cleaning every day. You did well, Tig. You feeling good?"

He had never felt better in his life—never, not one second better than he felt right now. This shit was fucking gold. "I feel great, doll. Wanna feel for yourself?" He lifted his cock in her direction.

She laughed again, and his cock surged. Her laugh was one of the best sounds he'd ever heard. She should record it and sell it or something, because that was a great sound. This was a great night.

Smiling with those luscious lips, she said. "I think I'll wait awhile. Come on then, pack that away and follow me." He stood and buttoned up, forcing the pole his cock was down into his jeans. They were alone. When did the lovers leave? How had he missed that?

She grabbed his wrist—fuck, her hands were soft and strong and felt so good—and led him through a door, into a short hallway, and into an elevator.

She stood slightly ahead of him in the elevator, and he stared at her back. The lacing of her top made shadows across the ink underneath. All of her ink was so intricate, in full color. So many different images—flowers, water, fire, script—his brain refused to process it all, but it danced and swirled as her body moved. It looked fluid. He reached out to touch her shoulder, surprised to feel skin—warm, soft, supple skin, but not actual flowers, actual fire.

She reacted to his touch only by turning her head toward him, so he spread his fingers over her back and around her shoulder, trying to make every part of his hand touch her. Then he dragged one finger down the center of her back and hooked it into the lacing of her top.

The elevator stopped. Before the door opened, she turned, moving slightly away from him. "Not quite time for that yet, champ. But come on in. See what you think. She took his hand and walked backwards into a large room. Once he was out of the elevator, he stood there like an idiot and gaped. His eyes saw everything and wanted to linger; his brain busily tried to sort out the images.

Desi was something more than he'd imagined.

The room they were standing in was a living room/dining room combination, but like none Tig had ever seen before. It was huge, running the length of the building; one wall was made of a long line of floor-to-ceiling windows. The ceilings were high—15 feet or more. The floor was a dark, gleaming, hardwood with planks of varying widths. The furniture was ultramodern, with clean lines and spare colors. Two long, white leather sofas faced each other in front of the windows. Chairs that coordinated but didn't exactly match faced each other at right angles to the sofas, making a square, a low, long, glass table in the middle. Over the smooth leather were throws that looked like fur. He ran his hands over one draped on the chair nearest him. Oh, it felt like fur, too. He could feel each strand against the skin of his palm, He gathered it up and pressed his face into it. Cool and soft. He sighed and looked up.

At the far end of the room was a long dining room table, black or some kind of very dark wood, surrounded by—Tig counted—a dozen chairs upholstered in a bluish-green fabric. The room looked liked something out of a magazine.

There was almost no clutter. A lamp, a stack of books, a glass bowl. The walls that weren't full of windows each had one dominant piece of art. Tig looked over at the one on the wall facing the windows, saw what he saw there, and strode immediately to it.

The painting was huge—maybe eight feet wide and four feet high. Colorful. It was a giant, stunningly beautiful pussy. No, a flower. No—that was a pussy. She had a painting of a gorgeous, fluted vagina hanging on her living room wall. The colors swam and danced before him. He reached out and touched. Then he leaned forward; he needed a taste.

He felt her hand on his shoulder, tugging him away. "Okay, Tig. That painting is worth about ten Dynas, so I'm gonna say no to your licking it. Let's move on."

Reluctantly, he turned around—and saw something he'd missed. How had he missed _that_? In a near corner of the room, hanging from the high, beamed ceiling, was . . . well, what was it? He went over to it. It was leather. And metal. And fascinating. He looked back at her. "What's this?"

She walked up and stood right next to him. He could feel her body heat mingling with his. He could smell her—leather and sweat and something else, something spicy, like cinnamon. "Have you ever fucked in a sex swing? It's pretty amazing."

He looked down at this woman. She had a sex swing installed in her living room? _This_ living room, with its fancy furniture and expensive art? He'd thought he had her pegged. He was a fucking moron. He didn't know about her at all.

"No. Never." He leaned in and grabbed a strap—oh fuck, he could smell sex in the leather. He pressed his nose tightly to it, and his cock strained against his fly. He felt dizzy with want. "Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered. He spun and reached for Desi, but she stepped back with a shake of her head.

"I'll fuck you in that if you want. But first you have to do something for me."

The thought of her body wrapped around his with that leather swing wrapped around them . . . if that was how it worked. He wasn't sure how it worked. He didn't care. His mouth filled with saliva. He was about to drool like a fucking dog. He swallowed. "What? Jesus, screw it. Anything."

Shit, he could fucking _feel_ that lopsided smile of hers. "Good boy. Follow me." She turned and headed for a hallway near the door. He followed, his brain swimming in sensation with every step.

She turned at the end of the hallway and led him into a room. A bedroom—hers, had to be. Way too fancy to be a guest room. But so completely different in style from the living room that his brain skidded at the dissonance. The furniture in here was heavy and ornate, the colors were deep jewel tones, and it seemed practically stuffed with different fabrics—silks and brocades and more faux furs. He walked up to the dark heavy bed and touched it, tracing carvings in the wood. His hand still tracing the grooves, he swiveled his head and furrowed his brow.

"Sturdy and soft works best in here, I've found." She walked to him and pulled his hand away from the bed, turning him to face her straight on. "So, here's what you need to do for me. Let me strip you and then lie down on my bed. Then just let me touch you. With my hands, with my body, and with . . . other things. Anything you don't like, I'll stop doing. But you have to lie still. No touching me or yourself. Do that for 30 minutes, and I'll fuck you in that swing."

She spoke low, almost a hum. He could feel it. And what she said—he could feel that, too. His heart was pounding, and he could feel his pulse drumming through his cock. The thought of not touching her made him want to cry—but the thought of her touching him, his naked body, for a whole half an hour, and then _finally_ getting inside her, that made him want to sing.

"Can I come?" He felt the vibrations in his voice against his tongue, his throat, the inside of his ribcage. His cock. He felt everything in his cock.

"If you need to, yes. In fact, I hope you do."

"Sounds like a good deal for me, doll." He reached out, but she stepped back.

"It's a good deal for both of us, I think. You in, then?"

"I'm in."

"Good boy." She pushed her hands under his kutte and slid it off his shoulders, catching it as it dropped. He was pleased that she folded it neatly and hung it over the arm of a chair. He started to unbutton his shirt, but she pulled his hands away and did it for him, removing it as she did his kutte. He was standing bare-chested before her, and she ran her hands lightly over his pecs, her fingers weaving through the hair there. He could feel her touch long seconds after she'd moved elsewhere, as if her heat had burned him ever so slightly.

She gently raked her nails down his belly to his jeans. She unbuckled his belt and opened his jeans, sliding her hands around his hips to his ass and pushing the denim down until she was squatting at his feet. His boots were still on. She looked up, and he toed them off, then stepped out of his jeans.

Now he was completely naked and she was fully clothed, dressed like a fucking dominatrix. She eased him back toward the bed. "Lie down on your back. Head on the pillows." He did so. The bed was covered with faux-fur throw and a comforter or spread made of gold silk. His eyes rolled back at the cool pleasure of such textures on his skin. It was like everything, even the bedspread, was alive around him. He was dazzled.

He heard the light creak of leather and looked toward the end of the bed. Desi was undressing, pulling the tank forward off her shoulders to expose—oh, fuck, oh yeah—a fully inked torso and the breasts of a 25 year old. He forced himself to focus and really look. Yep. Real. And he couldn't touch them for half an hour. He was starting to question this deal.

Desi shimmied out of the leather pants, and then she was as nude as he. Her ink stopped at about her hips, though there wasn't a straight line of demarcation; some pieces extended lower than others. The tail of a dragon looped around her navel and pointed at her pussy. Her hair there was dark, cropped, and neatly tended, a perfect triangle.

God, she was gorgeous. Tig felt his eyes tear up. She was so fucking beautiful. She walked to the bed, and he saw her muscles move under all that mind-blowing, fantastic ink. Fuck—_she had a six pack_. He'd never seen a woman built like this. Not in person. Not even at the strip clubs.

He tried to talk, but he couldn't think of anything to say. She knelt on the bed next to him. Of its own volition, his hand moved toward her leg. She cast her eye to it, and he stopped. No touching. Right. He didn't know how the fuck he was going to manage that. But he wanted the goddamn reward.

"I'd like to restrain you. How do you feel about cuffs?"

That was absolutely not going to happen. He'd give up the swing first. He focused through the glittering swirl that his brain had become and made himself talk. "No fucking way."

"Okay. But you need a word, Tig. Something to tell me you really do want me to stop if I try something you don't like."

"How about no fucking way?" He grinned.

She grinned back and he resisted the urge to sit up and kiss that slanted smile. "Needs to be something unambiguous and not related to 'yes' or 'no'. Something you'd never utter ecstatically."

He thought for a minute. Then he had it. As soon as he did, a thin, gossamer thread of black ran through the rainbow of color and light in his head. "Pope."

She smirked, not knowing the association for him. "Good word. Unusual. 'Pope' it is. Okay, let's get started, then." She leaned across him, allowing the tips of her breasts to graze his chest. He gasped. She sat back with a small silver timer in her hand. She set it to 30, showed him, then put it back, leaning and touching just as before. "I'm going to start with my hands, and then we'll see what other kinds of fun we can have."

She started at his scalp, running her fingers gently through his hair and scratching lightly. Then over his face, her touch light, barely there. To his throat, around to his neck, his shoulders, over his chest, combing through his hair, swirling around his navel and then working back up. Down his arms and back up. Along his sides. Over his hips. Down his legs. Back up, her hands running up the insides of his legs, slowing on his thighs, moving _so close_ to his balls. But not touching. Not there. And not his cock, standing fully erect, painfully engorged, and twitching with every nerve that spasmed anywhere in his body.

Tig had to close his eyes, because the sensations in his head were already more than his body could take. He wouldn't be able to stand it if he watched, too. As her fingers moved over his skin, they left vapor trails of sensation behind, so that by the time she'd made her second sensuous pass over his body, he was shaking with need. She still hadn't touched his cock or his balls. He knew he wouldn't come without touch there. Even when he was a kid, he'd never come without touch. Not even dreaming. If she didn't help him, he thought he might die.

But she was getting up and moving away from the bed. He opened his eyes and lifted his head. "What—?"

Without turning to him, she said, "Don't worry. I'll be right back." She opened the door to a big cabinet and rifled around inside. He couldn't see what she was doing, until she brought out something that looked like a feather duster, and something that looked like—a flog. Oh, shit. He almost said the word, but then she was running the feather thing over his skin and _Jesus Christ, that felt better than anything he'd ever felt ever in his entire life_. He was panting and moaning now like a chick. He couldn't seem to stop.

Tig wasn't at all ticklish, so the feather touch was intimate and relaxing, except to his cock, which was about to grow feet and walk somewhere it could get laid. She did flick the feathers over it a couple of times, on one pass, and he about did a backbend, he arched so hard. No longer able to stand it, he grabbed her wrist and tried to pull her to him. She sat back abruptly and her arm went rigid. "If you touch me, or yourself, no swing. That was our deal. I'll give you this one reminder."

"I can't stand it. I can't fucking stand it. I gotta touch you, baby. I'm dying." His brain felt loose in its casing, and he was going crazy with all this. Everything was too vivid, too intense. And yet not enough. He needed more.

"Deal's a deal. My house, my rules. Nine minutes left. You want restraints?"

He'd been fucking for 40 years. Never in that time had anyone bound him. That was a hard and fast line for him. No restraints. He'd bound scores of women, but no chains on him. No. "Fuck. Yeah. Fuck!"

She leaned over, this time pressing her breasts against his face. He relished the contact and moved his mouth over her nipples, one and then the other, as she cuffed his wrists to the bed. He fought them immediately, instinctually. But he didn't say the word. The black thread through his brain widened, though.

He expected her to use the flog next, and now he was totally vulnerable to it—he'd let himself become vulnerable—so he tried to prepare himself. But she set it aside with the feather thing and knelt between his legs. She grazed his balls lightly, the same touch she'd accorded the rest of his skin, and he arched toward her with a groan. "Please, doll. Fucking _please_."

And then she took him into her mouth. One hand held his base and the other wrapped snuggly around his sack, and she sucked him down. He came fast and hard, so hard it hurt. He'd never felt anything like it. He yelled his release, and she stayed on him, until he was drained.

"Holy shit, I love you," he breathed. He was chugging like a steam engine. His vision was a swirl of red lights. But he felt her moving up his body, drawing hers along his until they were face to face. She smiled and kissed him.

And filled his mouth with his own semen. He jerked back, but there was only so far he could go. He couldn't push her away, because he was bound. But then he didn't _want_ to push her away, because the kiss was incredible, her tongue writhing expertly against his.

He'd never tasted his jizz before. Wasn't that bad, really, once the shock had passed. It was getting in the way of his enjoying this kiss, though. So he swallowed and focused on the kiss. He was hard again. Fuck—this shit, whatever it was he'd taken, was better than Viagra. Not that he'd know about that, of course.

The timer went off. Desi pulled back, smiling down at him, and immediately stretched up to release the cuffs. "Good job. What'd you think?"

He'd never come so hard in his life. He'd never felt that kind of pleasure, that kind of intensity. He didn't know what to make of it, and his brain was working in mysterious ways he couldn't control. He grabbed her and rolled over onto her, sliding his arms under her shoulders and catching her head in his hands. He kissed her hard, and he felt her hands on his shoulders—clutching, not pushing. Raising his head, he growled, "I think you fucking owe me."

Now she pushed against him. "You're right. Come on, I'll show you how the swing works." She scooted out from under him and stood, holding out her hand to him. Feeling very confused—still better than he ever had, but off a little, too, as if something in the back of his head was fighting all this—he took her hand and got up, too. She went to that cabinet again—he still couldn't get a good look at the inside—and came out with a strip of condoms. She took his hand, and he let her lead him back to the living room.

When they were standing in front of the swing, Tig asked, "How do you get into it?"

Desi took the leather straps in her hands. "Lots of ways. Lots. But I think we should start with a basic one. You get in first, and I'll sit on you, facing you." She held the swing open for him. He could see vaguely how he should sit in it, and he got in and positioned himself, his hands around the supports. Then Desi grabbed one of his ankles, and he jerked it away. No fucking restraints. Enough with that shit.

"Easy. I'm just putting your foot in the strap. You'll be loose in it." Watching, he let her do it. Then she did the same to his other foot. She picked up the strip of condoms from the back of the chair where she'd laid it and pulled one off. While she tore open the foil packet, she stood between his legs. As if it could sense her, his cock swelled more, its tip fairly bulging and almost purple. She rolled the condom on slowly, unfurling it fully.

Then she smiled at him. "You ready?"

"Quit fuckin' around, doll. I'm ready." He was becoming a strange combination of ecstatic and enraged. He wasn't sure what to do with it, but he knew he needed to fuck her, and right the fuck now.

"Okay." She reached up and grabbed shorter straps, one hanging from each support. She pulled herself up by her arms—shit, she was strong; he could see her biceps and abs flexing spectacularly—and slid her legs over him, on either side of his hips. Still bearing virtually all of her weight in her flexed arms, she said, "Help me out here, love," and nodded to indicate he should hold his cock steady. He did, and she slid down onto him.

Slowly.

His eyes rolled back. All he felt now was ecstasy. He was inside her, and she was so hot and so wet and so tight, smooth and soft, and he was so deep. He cleared his vision and looked at her. She was right there, they were skin to skin, her breasts pressed against his chest, her legs squeezing his hips. He spread one hand over her collarbone and shoulder, needing, somehow, to touch her more, to make her more real.

"Hey," she whispered it, her voice husky. He looked up. "This isn't the good part yet. Hold on." He could only stare, unable to imagine what could be better than this. "I mean it—hold on to the straps." He did as she told him, his hands right above hers. Then she leaned way back. He felt her legs straighten behind him.

And she started to swing. Oh, _God_. Every time she flexed toward him he got so much deeper. He didn't need to do anything. The motion of the swing and of her body flexing on his brought them closer than anything he could have done. And then there was the sensation of swinging itself, rolling around at the base of his cock. _Fuck_.

He watched her, trying to read something—anything—in her face, but she was so composed. She was incomprehensible to him. He had no idea if she wanted him or why she had him up here. She was too much in control, and he didn't know what to make of it. It unsettled him, and he felt an uncomfortable ambivalence toward her, both fascinated and furious.

His body felt no ambivalence toward this experience, however. The drug still moving through his system enhanced even the slightest touch, and the tactile stimulation of this swing would have been intense even if he had been straight. He realized he was grunting, almost groaning, every time she came close and he went deep. And she was still fucking smiling.

He was _not_ coming again until she got off. Not until he'd affected her in some way. He let loose one of the supports; it upset the rhythm for a moment, and they wobbled a little, but then the swing stabilized, and Desi didn't stop him. He moved his hand between them. First he cupped one of her lovely, colorful breasts. He felt her clench around him at the contact, and he grinned. That's what he was looking for.

He ran his thumb over her nipple, flicking back and forth sharply as the skin tightened and her nipple swelled. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger and pulled. Steadily, pinching firmly, he extended her nipple until she cried out. Then, still holding it extended, he twisted.

She stopped swinging and sat up. He let go and put both arms around her. He had to touch her. Fuck the swing; if they fell, they fell. "Suck me. Oh, fuck. Suck me." Her demand was firm, but barely a whisper.

Sounded like a plan to him. He crossed his arms on her back and hooked his hands over her shoulders, leaning her back so that he could get properly to her breasts. Then he sucked her left nipple hard into his mouth, dragging the skin against his teeth. She cried out again and ground down on his cock, using her impressive core muscles to flex and twist and squeeze until he thought he'd go mad. He switched to her right breast and paid it the same mind; now her hands left the supports and twisted into his hair, pulling but holding him close as he tested her breast with his teeth.

She was moving too fast and too expertly; he wasn't going to be able to wait for her. But then she yanked his head back and screamed huskily, her muscles clenched so tight around his cock that she almost literally milked his orgasm out of him. He groaned and clutched her close, biting into her shoulder, his release a five-sense experience that overwhelmed him again to the verge of tears. He dropped his head to her chest, marveling again at her scent, and felt her lips in his hair, kissing him.

They sat wrapped together in the swing, gasping but otherwise silent, until their breathing was normal. Desi was the first to pull away. She smiled at him and kissed the end of his nose. Then she reached up, grabbed the handholds, and, again using only her arm strength, pulled up and off of him, landing on the floor like a cat. She helped him out of the swing.

Then she stepped in front of him and put her hand on his cheek.

Tig was confused. The drug was wearing off a little, he guessed, but it was leaving weird tracers of uncontrolled emotion behind. Somehow—he didn't understand, but somehow—that affectionate touch, her hand on his face, triggered his darkness. He pushed it back, but he couldn't push it away. He didn't want it here. Sometimes he did. Sometimes, he embraced it. But not here, not with her.

He knocked her hand away and grabbed her by the forearms, pulling her against him. She barely reacted, but he saw her eyes widen, and he felt the tautness in her body. He was rock hard _again_ and he knew what he needed; with sudden clarity it was there. Wrestling with that need he growled, "I need to have you. I need to _take_ you. Right now. I need it."

He needed it, and he knew he was going to take it whatever she said. He would fight it, but right now he didn't have anything like the control he'd need to stop. Holding it off like this was taking the last dregs of it.

She eyed him steadily and said one word: "Beg."

Didn't she know that he was already fucking begging by even saying anything? She had him so twisted up, and this fucking shit she'd fed him, the E or whatever, had him upside down. Still, he gritted out, the words coming painfully, "Yes! Please!"

She nodded once. Immediately, he threw her over the back of the chair. The strip of condoms was there, and he just barely had the control left to use one. Then he was jamming himself inside her, the fingers of his right hand clawing into the skin of her hip, his left hand grabbing her hair. He went as hard and rough as he could, grunting with every thrust so hard he was almost screaming, until he came, arching back, his hand still in her hair.

When he was done, he just dropped to the floor, sliding out of her as he fell. The last thing he saw was Desi kneeling at his side.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Another little note of big thanks for the reading and reviewing love. I just totally gives me joy to know that people are enjoying Tig and Desi's story. :)

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy

* * *

**CHAPTER 6:  
**"Loud Love," Soundgarden

Desi pulled her blue silk kimono over her shoulders as she walked out of the bathroom. Tig was in her bed, still out, on his side, his arms up near his head, hugging the pillow. She stopped and watched him sleep for a moment, then headed out to the kitchen.

While she started coffee, grinding the beans fresh, she reflected on the night. It had definitely been interesting, and she saw the possibility for an arrangement with him for continuing play. It had been a long time since a man had interested her. A long time. It had been even longer since she'd allowed one to be in her bed when she woke up in the morning. More than a decade.

He'd passed out on the living room floor after she'd let him fuck her roughly from behind. She'd checked on him, made sure he was only passed out, removed the condom from his softening cock, and covered him with one of her faux fur throws. Then she'd watched over him, curled up in the chair he'd thrown her over. He'd lain there for more than an hour before he stirred and she was able to get him mobile. She'd taken him to her bed—she still wasn't sure why. But she'd enjoyed sleeping next to him. She really had. She'd slept deeply and woken up snug against him, aroused.

She had a lot of thinking to do, it seemed. As the coffee brewed, she sat on the stool next to her stainless steel kitchen island and got to it.

The first thing she needed to think about was what she could expect from him when he woke. She'd taken a calculated risk when she'd offered him the molly. It had paid off the way she'd hoped it would; he'd been so wrapped up in the sensations that his resistance to being topped had receded. And, shit, it was hot, having that control over someone like him. She could practically smell his testosterone, and yet he'd let her restrain him. He'd done what she told him. The nerves at the bottom of her belly got limber as she remembered. She'd come hard in that swing, full of his cock, his teeth on her nipple.

She would have come hard over the chair, too, had it gone on much longer.

She shifted on the stool, suddenly restless. The risk, though, came now. Not knowing him well at all, she had no idea how he'd react to the comedown from the molly. MDMA was complicated. It was widely known as Ecstasy for a good reason: on it, positive sensations and emotions were maximized—literally maximized. The greatest possible intensity of joy, love, affection, empathy, orgasm. Physical sensations were likewise enhanced—hence the rave culture that had grown up around it. The driving beat of house music became an intense physical, sexual sensation. The glow sticks and neon were beautiful when you could see their tracers for long moments afterward. A dark room full of glowing, writhing rainbows.

Whether E or molly, it was an amazing high. But sometimes the comedown was hard, as if the body had simply purged itself of every good feeling. Into that vacuum, negativity could spread out and become almost consuming. What kind of negativity depended on the person. Some felt crushing depression the next day. Most felt malaise and indolence, a kind of emotional exhaustion. Some, though, felt rage. She'd gotten an inkling at the end of their play that for Tig it would be rage.

The intensity of the comedown depended in part on the quality of the product. Desi had the best molly available. It also, though, depended on the experience and personality of the person. Tig had taken his first dose last night, and what little she knew of him, either secondhand or through her slight direct experience with him, indicated that his personality was more dark than light.

Adding to that risk was the fact that he would remember everything, and he'd given over control to her that he clearly would not have normally. There was a good chance—the better chance—that, in the harsh light of the morning, he would be unhappy about that.

So she could expect some fireworks this morning. She planned accordingly.

About halfway through her first cup of coffee, she heard the floor creak. She set the cup down and waited, watching, until he turned and stood in the doorway. He was wearing only his jeans, the top two buttons undone. As long as he stood there quietly, she indulged a second to really take him in.

He was impressive, tall and broad. His nose was strong, prominent. Aquiline. His hair was a wild, wavy black halo—no grey that she could see—but his goatee was neatly trimmed and controlled. His face showed every minute of his age, which Desi took to be mid-ish 50s. It was the kind of male face Desi liked to look at. It was an interesting face.

His body, though. As someone whose physical condition belied her own years, she wasn't surprised that his body was so good, but she was nonetheless impressed. Setting aside his several scars, he had the fit physique of a man 20 years his junior, except for the grey coiled in with the black curls that covered his chest and tapered to a happy trail into his jeans.

He looked good. Wolfish. Desi enjoyed the view. Something about his jewelry on his bare skin—those leather cuffs especially—stirred her. But his fists were clenched. And the look in his blue eyes told her that things weren't done being interesting between them.

Still standing in the doorway, he growled at her, his voice low and menacing, "What the fuck did you do to me?"

She took a beat before she answered. She'd played out a few scenarios as she'd prepared for him to wake up; she decided to go with the approach that was most natural to her. "Nothing you didn't ask for. Come sit down. I'll get you some water, and after that you can have a cup with me. I'll help you understand what you're feeling."

He didn't move. "I'm feeling like I want to squeeze your fucking throat until your eyes pop, bitch."

Well, that was vivid. Staying calm, she stood, intending to get him a tall glass of water. An almost universal side effect of MDMA was dry mouth. Then he moved, reaching her in two steps and grabbing her by the throat. As promised. He put her against the Sub Zero refrigerator, and she could feel her weight lifting off her feet. But he wasn't squeezing too tightly. Not yet.

"Tig. What you're feeling is the comedown. Like a hangover. I can help you through it. But you need to let me go."

He glared at her, his eyes flaring with heat. "How can you be so _fucking calm_? I could kill you right now. I fucking want to!" He squeezed now, to make his point.

"Let me go, Tig." She'd held the muscles taut in her neck, so she still had some room to breathe and speak, despite his tighter grip. He was hurting her, though, and she hadn't deluded herself. He could kill her. Right now. She could feel the feral strength in his hand.

"Son of a bitch!" he shouted and then released her. He raked his hands back through his hair and turned around. She went to a frosted-glass-fronted cabinet and took a large glass tumbler down, then filled it with ice and water from the dispenser.

"Here. Drink this. It'll help." He spun and stared at her; she didn't react. It wasn't a struggle not to. In her life and work, she'd often been faced with unpredictable, potentially dangerous people. She honestly was unfazed. She understood the potential for danger; her understanding simply did not rise to the level of fear. It's not that she wanted to be hurt or didn't care whether she lived or died—she cared very much. But she knew how to stay steady.

Tig, quite clearly, did not. After a second or two of his nearly maniacal stare, she lifted the glass toward him again. "It will help, Tig." He took it, and drank it down in a few large swallows. She took the glass from him and, very gently, put her hand on his elbow. He turned his gaze to that point of contact. "Come sit down, love. I'll get you some coffee now." She turned and went to put the glass in the sink.

As she was reaching up into another cabinet for a coffee mug, Tig was suddenly right behind her, pressed hard against her back, his arm raised and his hand tight around her wrist. His hand was shaking. With a strong, quick move, he brought her arm behind her back, as she'd once done to him. He leaned his head on hers; she could hear his harsh, staccato breath against her ear.

"I don't want fucking coffee. I want you. I need to touch you. I need to fuck you. I need to fuck this shit out of me. With his free hand, he pulled her kimono off her shoulders. He was rough, and she was pinned. The silk gave somewhere; she heard the whisper of the tear.

But then he put his lips to her shoulder in the gentlest possible manner, his lips breezing over her skin. She felt his tongue, lightly tasting. The contrast was . . . distracting. She dropped her head, giving him more access.

He read the sign she was giving him and spun her around, releasing her arm. He lifted her onto the counter and spread her legs wide, stepping between them. He stared at her silently; she stared back. She watched him carefully, but she didn't stop him. Instead, she put her arms on his shoulders. But then he grabbed the edges of her kimono in his fists, and she grabbed his hands in hers.

"Wait, Tig." She was going to have to loosen the line, give him something, allow the scale to level out a bit. This wasn't a man who would tolerate the bottom for long, and he'd given over a lot of power to her last night. Allowing her to restrain him had been an almost physically painful decision, even in the throes of his high—she'd seen his turmoil and understood that the risk, for them both, had lain there.

She had to give some power back, or she was going to get hurt. Even if she didn't, even if he was able to master the urge he was feeling now, he'd walk away. And she wasn't done with him yet.

The trick was giving him some power without giving him control. He wasn't a practiced top. He was just a guy who took what he wanted. She knew him hardly at all. It was crucial that she maintain control, at least until they understood each other. At least until there was trust. She didn't know if either of them would stay interested long enough to reach that point.

"No. I can't wait. I won't." His hands moved, but she tightened her grip, and he subsided. He was obviously exerting some control over himself. A good sign.

"You can take what you want by force right now. But if you do that, I'll have nothing more to do with you. Or you can reach into that wild head of yours and find some focus, and we can talk first. Then, maybe we can come to an arrangement."

He dropped his head, resting his forehead on her shoulder. She threaded her fingers through his hair. It was soft. Silky.

"What fuckin' arrangement?" His voice was muffled by her chest.

"In the short term, I want to tell you what I like, and I want you to do that. If we can work that out, then, afterwards, we can talk about more long term arrangements." She'd felt the shift in his posture when he'd heard what she'd said—as if he'd cocked his head. She had his attention.

He lifted his head a bit and nuzzled her neck. "Tell me what you want." His hands released her kimono and instead moved to grip her hips. She took a deeper, settling breath; she was becoming intensely aroused, and she was not ready to signal that too obviously.

"I like heavy contact. But not pain. Do you understand the difference?"

His attitude was shifting rapidly now. He grinned mischievously, glee bright in his eyes. "You like it rough, but you don't want to bleed."

That was pretty close. "Or have any mark that lasts longer than 30 minutes. But if you'd have tried to use the feather flog on me, I'd have used my safe word. I hate touch that light."

"What's your safe word?"

"I'll tell you that if we come to an arrangement."

"Can I cuff you?"

She wasn't at all surprised he'd ask about that. She noticed, too, that this line of questioning was giving him the focus he needed to calm down. He was intent. His breathing had settled dramatically. "No, no restraints."

"You owe me that."

She looked steadily at him, not even shaking her head. "I don't. I didn't restrain you until you wanted me to. I don't—won't—want you to."

"Sounds like a challenge to me."

"Take it as you will, love. I won't be restrained." She needed to be careful where she threw down gauntlets; she suspected that he could fixate on such a challenge, and that could upend the arrangement she had in mind.

"Can I bite you?" This was good. As long as he was asking and she was answering, setting the limits, the game was on her field.

"Without bruising or breaking the skin? Yes." At her answer, he clutched her hips more tightly and flexed against the counter.

"Can I take your ass?"

After a strategic pause, she answered, "Not in the short term, no."

"But someday?"

"That depends on a lot. So let's say the future possibility vaguely exists. Let's focus on the next hour or so."

"I know all I need to know for today. Can I tell you what I want?"

He was still asking for permission. Good. "Go ahead."

Now he pulled her kimono open and yanked her against him, so that her naked body was pressed hard to his chest and jeans. The scent of him was deep and masculine, and she breathed it in, feeling rather less steady suddenly. She caught herself just before she actually nuzzled his chest.

He put his mouth to her ear and, with a raspy, growling whisper, murmured, "I want to touch you everywhere. I want to taste you everywhere. I want to put my hand in your hot pussy and feel you clench around me. I want to suck your sweet tits so hard your back arches. I want to lick your clit till you beg me to let you come, and then I want to put you on your knees and fuck you till you scream."

Desi closed her eyes. Focusing on maintaining a steady breath, she didn't answer. He sucked gently on her neck, then whispered, "I can feel your pulse on my tongue. You're not fooling me, doll. You want it. I'm gonna give it to you. We have an _arrangement_?"

"We do."

He pushed her kimono off her shoulders and picked her up, carrying her back to her bedroom. She wrapped her nude body around him and let him.

He knelt on her bed and laid her down, then stood back and dropped his jeans. He was fully erect. When Desi had told him he had a nice cock, she'd understated. What he had was an impressive cock. The thought of someday taking that in her ass—well, it was probably never going to be under serious consideration, but if somehow it was, the consideration would definitely be serious.

He lay down along her side, resting on his elbow, and got started with the touching. She hadn't realized he'd set forth an agenda when he'd growled in her ear, but it looked like he had. He took her at her word about heavy contact, his fingers left momentary impressions in her skin as they traced paths over her body. The skin on his palms and the pads of his fingers was hard and calloused. The rough scratch against her much softer skin made her nerve endings shiver.

She realized that he was tracing the lines of her most prominent tattoos, across her shoulders, over the top of her chest, down her arms, over her belly. Roughly, suddenly, he flipped her over; it surprised her, and she wasn't even sure how he'd done it so smoothly, but all at once she was prone, and he was moving his hands over the outlines of the ink on her back. She closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax into the delightful sensations. It was rare—practically unique—for Desi to turn inward during sex and just feel.

When he pushed her legs apart and rolled over to kneel between them, she focused outward again, watchful. He put a hand on either side of her shoulders and leaned over her, then she felt his lips and tongue, and the steel-wool prickle of his beard, on her back. He was tasting her now. He had an agenda indeed. He kissed over the top of her shoulder and worked his way to her neck. He grabbed her earlobe between his teeth and sucked firmly. Desi breathed deep, relaxing again into her arousal. She could feel her juices moving between her legs, making her wet inside and out. But she stayed still and quiet and only breathed.

He released her lobe and murmured, "Feel good, doll? You like it? Tell me you want it."

She turned her head a bit so that she could see him from the corner of her eye. She said nothing. He bit down on her shoulder and sucked, flexing his hips, pushing his hard, searing cock against her ass. "Tell me."

She smiled. She was lying here passively, but she was not submitting. He was going to learn the distinction.

"You proud bitch." He flipped her again, straddling her hips. She watched his face intently; he, in turn, was watching his hands. She felt their rough touch on her breasts, taking them whole into his grip and kneading firmly. She took a deep breath to calm the need to clench and flex.

"You have great tits, doll. Firm but soft in my hands. The ink is beautiful. I love how it goes right to the nipple. I wonder why you stopped there."

"Haven't found the right ink yet." She was glad to hear that her voice was clear and steady.

He looked up sharply, and she realized that he hadn't expected her to answer; he hadn't actually been talking to her. Reading his look, she also understood that he'd heard the steadiness in her voice, and it pissed him off. Without warning, he grabbed her nipples, both at once, and pinched. Hard. He gave them a yank and a twist, and he got the first thing he wanted: she arched off the bed with a gasp.

She'd almost come. She'd caught it and pulled it back at the last second, and she was fairly certain that he was too involved in what he was doing to her breasts to have noticed.

His eyes twinkled. "That's better." He scooted down her legs and bent over, releasing his grip on one breast so that he could take it into his mouth instead. He closed his teeth around her nipple and sucked, raking it through his teeth as he drew it into his mouth, rolling the other between his fingers.

Again, she arched up and gasped, and she felt his laughter on her distended nipple. She grabbed his head, lacing her fingers into his curls, and held him on her. The urge to say fuck it and give into him was growing, but she fended it off.

He shifted and suckled her other breast for a few minutes. She was breathing rapidly now and starting to moan. He echoed every sound she made with one of his own, his grunts vibrating against her sensitive flesh. And then he shifted abruptly down, and his mouth was on her clit. He was sucking it as if he could draw nectar from it. She still had hold of his hair, and she twisted her fingers sharply in it. He growled and shook his face against her. She was close, and she was ready to let it happen. The second she started to flex and writhe he pulled away and looked up at her.

As soon as he did, she took several slow, deep breaths and settled down, feeling her orgasm ebb away from the precipice she'd been on.

He cocked his head at her. "Beg."

Shaking her head only slightly and making sure her voice would be steady, she said, "I don't beg."

He went down on her again, sucking firmly, his hands under her ass and clutching her cheeks, pressing her up against his mouth until, again, she was about to go over the edge, and then he stopped. He turned his face into her inner thigh and bit down sharply before he pulled back.

She was onto him, though, and prepared. She had some experience in delayed gratification. She breathed through it and relaxed.

"I'm not getting you off unless you beg for it."

Her breathing balanced, she regarded him silently, one eyebrow raised. When he'd sat back, she'd seen the wet drop on the end of his cock. She could wait him out.

He went down again, this time adding one, two, three fingers pumping into her to the hard, rhythmic sucking on her clit. She was keening now, flexing her hips against his movements, trying to get there before he pulled away—but she didn't, and he did.

Wearying of the game, but committed to the result, she settled herself again. She looked up at him then and understood that she'd won. He was shaking with his own need. "Fuck it. And fuck you," he growled, and then he flipped her over again and dragged her up to her knees.

He grabbed her hips, and she shifted away, looking back at him. "Condom."

Shaking his head as if he couldn't believe how stupid he'd almost been, he reached to the nightstand and tore one off the dwindling strip. As soon as he had it on, he grabbed her hips again and slammed into her.

At first, he went at her as he had over the chair in the living room, but then he shouted "_Fuck_!" and grabbed her hair to pull her up and back against his chest. Resting his head in the crook of her shoulder, he took a nipple in one hand and pushed the other against her clit. He groaned. "Come for me. I want to feel you come. Please. No more games. Come. Now."

And she did. It was finally beyond her control, anyway. The multiple stimulation after all that delay, the shift and stretch of his cock inside her, the heavy pressure of his rough hand on her clit, the pinching roll of her nipple between his firm digits—she threw her hands over her head and grabbed at his hair again. She writhed and ground on him until she was engulfed. She came and came, and he didn't stop thrusting or rubbing or pinching. He got what he wanted; she screamed. She came until he did, his ragged, wordless shout drawing the last drops of release out of her.

He dropped forward and brought them both down to the bed. She was content to lie there, still full of him, his weight on her back. Muttering sleepily, he said, "One of these days I'm gonna make you beg. I won't stop till I do." Then he was quiet, and soon his breathing became rhythmic and deep. He'd fallen asleep on her.

He'd just thrown down a gauntlet of his own. She smiled and let herself drowse, enjoying the feeling of his warm weight, the sultry scratch of his chest hair on her back.

-oOo-

When he left later in the afternoon, he asked for her number. She gave it to him. Ten minutes later, he called. When she answered, he said, "Just checking you gave me your real number. I'll see you soon, doll." Then he ended the call.

Desi showered again and got ready for the club, feeling relaxed, sated, and satisfied. So far, she'd kept Tig operating on her terms, but he was pushing hard. She liked it. She'd become very interested.

She felt the merest trace of fear.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: **Desi brings Tig deeper into her world. Samantha is part of their play. Bondage, toys, etc. There is actually a plot developing; this isn't all going to be pure lemon. But these two only relate on that level so far.

I want to thank again Simone Santos and MuckyShroom, who are helping me greatly as I work this story out. Wine's on me!

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 7:  
**"Start Me Up," The Rolling Stones

Tig rolled over and lay on his back. Without looking, he pulled the condom off and tossed it in the trash, then grabbed a cigarette from the pack on the table next to the bed. He stuck the butt in his mouth and struck a match. "Get out."

Junie rolled off the bed. "Can I use the bathroom first?"

"Make it quick." Watching her ass as she headed into the john, he drew smoke into his lungs and rested back, one arm behind his head. She was limping or something.

He remembered that his registered cell had gone off while he was fucking her. He stuck the cigarette in the corner of his mouth and stood, shoving himself back into his jeans—he felt sticky, so he looked down. His thighs were bloody. There was blood on his belly, too. He looked at the bed. Shit. Was she on the rag?

No, it wasn't that kind of blood. He knew the difference. He put the cigarette in the ashtray. Glancing at the closed bathroom door, he grabbed the top sheet and wiped himself off, then finished the job of closing his jeans. He grabbed his phone off the dresser and checked his calls.

Desi.

She'd never called before. Looked like she'd left a message.

He hadn't seen her in almost a month, since that crazy night and day with the drugs and the swing and—shit. That all still consumed more than half of his thoughts, and she herself took up about half of what was left. She was like no one he'd ever known. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten obsessed, but this was different. He wasn't sure how it was different, but it was. He felt like he had vertigo or something.

He'd called her a couple of times, and they'd shared a little dirty talk. He wanted—shit, _needed_—to see her again, but he'd gone out on a long run, and then she'd been gone for more than two weeks on business or something. Maybe she was back.

And she'd called him.

The message was short, a request for him to call her back. As he was preparing to do just that, Junie came out of the john and said, "Fuck, Tig, you've been extra rough lately. I'm gonna need a tetanus shot—or maybe rabies."

Mouthy bitch. Barely thinking about it, he sent his hand out and backhanded her to the ground. He bent down and grabbed a handful of her hair, bringing her back up.

"You got a problem?"

She was scared. Good. Maybe she'd watch her mouth. "No, Tig. No problem. I'm sorry. Really." Her voice was soft and shaky. He released her.

"Get the fuck out." She scurried around gathering up her clothes. He looked again at the bloody sheets. "Take those with you; get 'em clean."

Watching her strip the bed, he dialed Desi. She answered after a couple of rings.

"Hey, doll. Miss me?" Junie jerked and looked at him for a second, then looked away quickly, finishing her job and making herself scarce.

Desi didn't answer his question, but with a smile in her voice, she said, "You busy tonight?"

His balls twitched. Was she about to _invite_ him to see her? "Not if I don't want to be. What d'you have in mind?"

"I have a friend. I told her a little bit about you. We thought that the three of us could play a little together. You up for that?"

Tig closed his eyes and rested his forehead on his fist for a second. Jesus. Desi—she of the leather sex swing and mysterious toy chest—was inviting him over for a _fucking three-way_? It was one thing to round up a herd of 'Eaters. This—this—the mere thought of it made his head swim. "Doll, you got no idea how up I am for that. I am up for that right now. I'm so up I ache."

She laughed that husky laugh. "Good boy. You should come over early, so we can talk about ground rules. Can you be here around five?"

"What about your club?"

"Club's closed Sunday through Tuesday. I'm off tonight."

His day was looking up. "I'm there, doll. Bells on."

-oOo-

He was there early, in fact, but he waited until five to go up. He realized, though, that he didn't know how to get to the fifth floor without her elevator key. He called her on his cell from the lobby.

"I'm here, but I don't know how to get up there."

"There's a phone next to the elevator. You can call it, and I can release the fifth floor from here. I can do it now." There was a short pause. "Come on up."

She was dressed more casually than he'd seen her—faded jeans, bare feet, a plain white oxford shirt. Her makeup was lighter, her hair less severe. Still hot as hell. He walked straight to her and held her face in his hands, not giving her a chance to move away from him. He kissed her hard, claiming her mouth.

She kissed him right back, her tongue battling his, and he walked her backwards until they hit the wall and he leaned into her. "I want to fuck you right now."

She wedged her arms between them. "Nope. We have some things to talk about. There might be time for some play before Samantha gets here, but nothing happens until you're clear on how things will go with her."

He stepped back. "So talk."

Smiling, she grabbed his hand and walked him back to her bedroom. If she wanted to talk, doing it in the room with her bed wasn't her smartest move. But she walked him into and across the room and stopped in front of the piece of furniture he'd been thinking of as her toy chest, a huge old wardrobe.

She turned to him and said, "Samantha is a submissive." Tig's head got quiet and he gave Desi a look. He'd been thinking he was in for a romp with Desi and a friend. But there was more to it.

"There are different kinds of submissives, just like there are different kinds of dominants. Samantha's particular thing is bondage. She likes to be bound, and she likes delayed release. She likes light pain."

"Like you?"

"She likes to go out a bit farther than I do. I like to come up to the edge of pain, she likes to dangle off that edge."

"So I didn't hurt you before?" He was thinking about how rough he'd been on her tits, for one thing.

"Not while we were playing. You hurt me in the kitchen, when you were choking me."

He vividly remembered every second he was awake in her apartment, when he was on the drug, and when he was coming off it. He could still almost feel the quaking fury in his gut. He'd woken up alone in her bed, remembering first not the world-rocking intensity and pleasure of the sex, but how he'd let her put him in fucking cuffs. He'd been her bitch. And he'd been consumed with rage.

But now he was ashamed. He didn't understand this dance he and Desi were doing, but he knew he didn't want to hurt her. He didn't know what he felt about her, but he knew that much, at least.

He put his hand on her neck and lightly drew his thumb over her throat. "I'm sorry about that."

She regarded him curiously and then continued with what she'd been saying. "It's not an easy balance, knowing just how much pain is right, so you need not to try it with her. A bound submissive is completely vulnerable. It's paramount that you be trustworthy. You have to follow my lead. If you don't, you'll have to leave. Agreed?"

He nodded.

"Say it."

He smiled. She was a bossy bitch, no question. Fighting for control with her was surprisingly erotic. "I'll follow your lead."

She opened the chest. And Tig's brain shorted.

It was neatly organized and absolutely packed with sex paraphernalia. He didn't even recognize half of what he saw. There were crops and flogs and paddles; at least a dozen different vibrators; dildos in every shape, size (some with more than one . . . prong), and color; butt plugs and strap-ons; an organizer tray filled with different kinds of nipple clamps; a whole shelf of lubricants, wipes, and condoms; assorted restraints; and that was just most of what he could identify.

She was completely out of his league. He was stunned. And intimidated. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt intimidated. He didn't like it.

"Fuck, doll. Have you used all this shit?"

"At least once, yes. I try everything that I buy."

"Everything?"

"Well, I don't buy anything I'm not equipped to try. I would never use on somebody else something I haven't felt myself. So you won't find any cock rings in there, for example, because I can't experience a cock ring myself."

He moved to reach in and touch, but he stopped and looked at her. "Can I?"

"Go ahead." The smile she gave him was that indulgent, Mona Lisa smile. He loved and loathed it in equal measure. It was sexy, but it screamed _I know more than you do._

He reached in and pulled out what at first almost looked like a necklace—like those big Mardi Gras beads he'd seen the girls wear at parties sometimes. He realized when he brought it out that it wasn't a necklace. It was an almost rigid strand about a foot long, made of a clear, blue plastic, with beads of ascending size. There was a ring on one end of the strand. It was pretty, actually.

"What's this?" She had taken a step or two back, so he turned and showed her what he was holding.

"Anal beads."

He looked at it again. No way. It was a foot fucking long! He gave her a look that said what he was thinking, and she laughed a little.

"You don't have to insert the whole thing." She stepped up next to him and picked up the smaller end. "The smaller beads go in first, and you go as deep as you want." She walked her fingers up the beads as she talked. "It's safe to the whole length, if that's the boat you float." She took the beads from him and wrapped one hand around, hooking the fingers of her other hand through the ring. "Then, you can pull them back out, one at a time, at just the right moment." She demonstrated, pulling the beads through her hand, slowly, as she talked. "As you're fucking, for instance, or while you're getting blown. Especially just as you're achieving release. It's intense. It's nice." Watching her demonstrate like that was shockingly sexy.

"These have been inside you?"

She handed him back the beads. "They have."

His cock almost leapt out of his pants. "Can I put them inside you?"

Still with that fucking smile. He was going to suck it off her face soon. "Not unless you've had them inside you and you know what it feels like."

No fucking way. He looked down at them wistfully and put them away. He noticed some of the nipple clamps were different from the ones he knew (and had used on several women; he was a fan). He pulled a pair of purple ones that looked like vinyl-coated alligator clamps but were heavy and had some kind of attachment and a cord. He pulled them out, but the cord was long, so he didn't take them all the way out.

Again, he looked at Desi. "They vibrate. There's a control at the end of the cord." She pulled the whole contraption out and showed him the control. Oh, he needed a pair of these.

"I'd love to see these on you." The way she responded to what he'd done to her tits? Yeah, he wanted her in nipple clamps. _Vibrating_ nipple clamps.

"I told you the deal. You experience them yourself, and then you can use them on somebody else. On me or Samantha."

"Yeah, okay." That he could do. His balls twitched at the thought. She took them from him and set them next to the bed. He turned back and did some more shopping. He pulled out a large, red, U-shaped dildo, both ends shaped like a cock.

"Is this for what I think it's for?" He tried to imagine the girl who could take both ends of this thing at once—was Desi that girl?

"I don't know what you think it's for, but it has a couple main uses." She took it out of his hands, and squeezed so that the legs of the U were closer together. "Double penetration, or"—she widened the U again—"two women. I've used this with another woman in the swing."

Holy God. He stood there with his eyes closed and let himself see that for awhile. "Is it good? I bet it's good."

She chuckled sexily. "It's good."

Now he pulled something out that looked like part of an EKG machine—little pads and wires, with another remote control thing at the end. That didn't make any kind of sense.

Desi took it right out of his hands. "It's shock play—but some other time."

_Shock play_? Jesus Christ, there was a whole world of sex he didn't fucking know about. How had that happened? "Like electric shock?"

"Yeah. The pads go where you want them to go, and then you can administer and adjust an electric shock with this control. It ranges from something like a gentle massage to something much more intense—still safe, but quite sharp. Samantha likes this one, but we're not using it today."

"Why not, if she likes it?"

"I don't think you're ready to feel it yourself. You'd have to feel both extremes. On, say, your balls."

So they were in agreement, then, that he wasn't going to have his balls shocked anytime soon. But he was incredibly curious about this particular toy. "Can I just watch you use it?"

In the act of putting it away, she paused and considered him. She nodded. "Yeah, that works. Don't get grabby with the remote, though."

He laughed. "No, ma'am." He turned back to the chest.

Desi put her hand on his forearm. It wasn't an erotic touch, but it was companionable, and his cock liked it all out of proportion. He turned to her; her smile was wider and more lopsided, and he needed to kiss it. So he put his hand on her back and brought her close. She came willingly and pulled his head down to hers.

The kiss was deep and slow—their first contact that might be called romantic. Tig was so turned on his blood was tap dancing through his veins, but there was also something really intimate about standing here going through her inventory of kinky sex toys. He felt her body relax into his, her hands on his chest, and he brought her even closer, driving his tongue more deeply into her mouth, wrestling with her tongue. Finally, she pulled away, and he groaned.

"As fun as this little show and tell has been, it won't be too long before Samantha will be here, and you need to try out some nipple clamps, as I understand it."

He unbuttoned his shirt and bared his chest, his arms wide. "Go for it, doll."

She pushed his shirt and kutte off his shoulders together and lay them over the arm of the chair in the corner. Then she pushed him backwards until his legs hit her bed. He lay down crosswise, and she straddled him. She attached the clamps, tightening them slowly. Jesus, it felt good. Her gentle hands were the best part.

"Use your safe word if you want me to stop. I'll do fifteen seconds at each level. There are four levels, so just a minute total. Okay?"

His hands on her thighs, gripping, he nodded. "Okay." She turned on the remote.

He arched his head back right away; the sensation was intense and _so fucking good_. By the time the minute was up, he had his fingers clamped so deeply into her thighs he'd be surprised if she weren't bruised.

She removed the clamps, and a short rush of pain followed as the blood came back. "What do you think?" She leaned to her side and put the whole gizmo on the nightstand. As soon as she sat back up, still straddling him, he grabbed her and rolled them over, lying on top of her.

"That was fucking hot. Now I need to fuck you." He was panting.

She caught his hip somehow with her foot and used it as leverage to flip them the other way, and now she was on top again. She stood up and dropped her jeans. From a drawer in the nightstand, she pulled out a single condom. Tig assumed it was the last one left from the strip she'd pulled out of her toy chest their first night. He ripped open his jeans and pulled himself free.

She straddled him again and rolled the condom on, then rose up on her knees and dropped down sharply, impaling herself on him. He arched back, yelling "Fuck!" And then she rode him, like he'd never been ridden before. Staring at him the whole time, she rose up and dropped down, over and over, the strong muscles in her pussy pulling and squeezing him. He wanted to play with her tits, but she still had her shirt on, and there was no way he could deal with the buttons now, so he grabbed her thighs and just let her go.

Every time she landed on his hips, he grunted. His breath was coming in heavy gasps and he needed her to fucking come. He held her down firmly with one hand and put the other on her clit, which effectively kept her in place. Instead, she flexed and rotated her hips wildly, forcing him deep.

Facing her like this, staring into her eyes, he saw her orgasm come over her. It was his first moment of real understanding of her, seeing this shift in her eyes. He couldn't describe what was different, or why he knew, but he did, and when he saw it, he bent his knees, put his feet flat on the bed behind her and surged up into her. She cried out and arched back over his knees and hung there, her hips pulsing. He watched her belly spasm through her release. When she straightened back up, he flipped them and drove into her until he came, his teeth clamped on her neck.

-oOo-

He didn't know what to expect of Samantha, but he didn't expect her. She was tall, fair, and blonde. She was young—probably not thirty. Her face was pleasant but not gorgeous. Her blue eyes were a bit too big, as were her teeth. She looked sweet, not like someone who wanted to be tied up for fun. She had a lovely body, slim and toned—but smooth, like a model, instead of cut, like Desi. Because Desi was cut. Her ink camouflaged a lot of her definition, but Tig had had his hands everywhere now, and she was _defined_. He was curious about her workouts—they must be intense. He hadn't asked yet; they'd hardly talked about anything but sex. He didn't know what was happening between them, but they weren't getting to know each other in a traditional way, that was sure.

After Desi introduced Tig and Samantha, they went straight to the bedroom and got started. Tig stood back a little, wearing only his jeans, while the women stripped. Then they stood at the toy chest and discussed restraints. Samantha pulled a set of black straps out, and Desi nodded and took them from her. Then Desi showed her the nipple clamps and the shock device; Samantha smiled broadly.

She lay supine on the bed, her head at the foot, and Desi wrapped the leather cuffs that she apparently just left attached to her bed around Samantha's wrists and ankles. Then Desi took the straps Samantha had chosen and wrapped them in an intricate pattern around her. When she was done, the straps crisscrossed around Samantha's breasts and between her legs. They were attached somehow to the other restraints as well.

Tig was fascinated. He needed to remember all this. He wanted model numbers.

Desi came over to him. "Okay. I told you she likes to be restrained. The straps around her body are worked so that if she moves too much, they will tighten. If _we_ move her too much they could tighten, too, so respect that. She needs to be in control of that. That means you don't fuck her until those straps are off. Her safe word is 'Dalmatian.' She says 'Dalmatian,' and we back the fuck off. Understood?"

"Understood." This was unlike any three-way he'd been in before. He'd been in lots—hell, three people wasn't even a party—but they'd been mostly groping and fucking. The really kinky stuff he reserved for a couple of particular girls and mostly did one-on-one. He'd certainly never asked anyone for a safe word.

"If you're just going to watch, you can leave your jeans on, but strip before you engage with us." She walked over to the bed and kissed Samantha, a long sweet kiss. He stripped immediately and followed.

The next hour and a half rocked Tig's world. He'd never been with a woman who was bound specifically because she wanted to be—not because she knew it was what he wanted, or because she was getting paid, but because it actually was the thing she liked best. Watching her simply be still, listening to her breathing, her little gasps and moans, while they touched her and sucked on her and filled her with their fingers and tongues and with toys—fuck, it was amazing. He spent the whole time focused on these women with hardly a thought to getting himself off.

He was harder and hotter than he would have thought he could stand, but he _could_ stand it. He could wait.

Desi handed him the nipple clamps and he was gentle, attaching them to Samantha's perfect, sweet, pink nipples carefully and watching her eyes as much as her tits as he manipulated the remote control. While he played with that, Desi sucked her clit and fucked her with a long, thick dildo. Every time Samantha's body started to tense, Desi backed off. Following her lead, Tig did, too.

Then Desi set the dildo aside and asked him to remove the clamps. He did, and she replaced them with the electro-shock pads, one over each nipple. The other two pads she slid under Samantha and put on her ass. Tig stood back and watched, cripplingly horny, as Desi manipulated the control and administered _fucking electric shock_. Freaky as shit.

Samantha didn't move much, but she moved more during that session than at any other time. She was gasping and moaning quietly. By the time Desi turned the control off, the straps had tightened to the point that Samantha's breasts were a few shades more pink than the rest of her. Desi removed the pads, set that toy aside, and unfastened the body straps. She slid a kind of pillow under Samantha's ass, raising it up.

She hadn't come. Through all of that, for almost 90 minutes, she stayed right on the edge. Tig was astounded, and he just stood there. Astounded.

Desi handed him a condom and took him by the hand. "Do you want to fuck her? Now's the time."

"Jesus Christ, Desi. You're a freak."

She grinned. "I am. That a problem?"

"Fuck, no. But aren't you gonna get off?" She just smiled and nodded toward the bed.

He got on the bed between Samantha's legs and slid his hands up her thighs, from her knees to her pussy. She was swollen and wet, and she gasped when he touched her. He looked up at her. "Do you want it, doll?" he asked.

She nodded, her eyes eager. He winked, rolled on the condom, and slid into her.

Then Desi got onto the bed, too, straddling Samantha's head, facing him. He understood now. Holy shit. As he pumped into Samantha, she ate Desi out. Desi leaned forward and grabbed Tig's head, drawing him into a deep, savage kiss. They stayed like that, writhing on each other, until, like dominoes, they came: Samantha, and then Tig, and, last, Desi.

Tig collapsed on Samantha, but Desi was up right away, releasing the restraints and gathering up the toys. She pulled a small plastic basket from the bottom of the chest and dumped the things they'd used into it. Samantha kissed Tig's cheek and murmured, "Thanks—that was excellent," in his ear, then scooted out from under him and went into the shower. Alone in the bed, Tig rolled over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, feeling seriously horny for Desi and trying to make sense out of what he was in the middle of with her.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: **Unless things get waaaaay out there (which is possible, I suppose), I'm going to stop warning/forecasting the sex in every chapter. Just assume that vanilla will be the exception, not the rule, here and that not all lemons with be Tig/Desi lemons. Especially not at this point. They don't even know each other's full names, so they are definitely not exclusive.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 8:  
**"Looking for a Kiss," New York Dolls

Desi saw Samantha off and then went back to her bedroom, where Tig was lying on the bed. He hadn't said anything since they'd finished. She knelt at his side. He was just staring at the ceiling.

"You doing okay?"

He turned his head to look at her, and he rested his hand on her thigh. She liked the ease of the gesture. Soon, she was going to need to sort out her feelings about this man and get some clarity about the situation developing between them.

"Gotta tell ya, doll—I honestly don't know." He rubbed her thigh tenderly.

"You want to talk about it?"

His eyes squinted slightly as he contemplated her for a moment before he spoke. "Nah. Gotta work it out on my own."

She nodded; she understood. "Do you want to go?" As she asked, she realized that she would be disappointed if he said yes.

"You know, I don't. That's fucking weird itself. But I'm not ready to go."

She ran her fingers through the hair on his chest. He grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips. Everything about this little interlude felt . . . _romantic_. There was something different happening between them, something she hadn't counted on. Something she wasn't sure she wanted. Something potentially dangerous. She needed to understand it. "You hungry? You want to go get a burger and a beer?"

Again he squinted at her a little before he answered. "Yeah, okay." He sat up and, as she was moving off the bed, he grabbed her face and kissed her. Sweetly—his tongue moving softly along her lips before pushing into her mouth. A fist of desire tightened in her belly.

He sat back, still cradling her head. With one hand, he lightly traced the ink along the side of her face. His voice low, little more than a rumble, he asked, "Desi. Who _are_ you?"

The question set her back; she didn't know what he was asking her. Instead of answering, she smiled, pulled his hands away, and said, "Let's go eat."

-oOo-

As they left the building, Desi took his hand to lead him down the street; there was a little pub and grill a couple of blocks down. But he pulled her to him instead and said, "No. I know a place. Ride with me."

Getting on Tig's bike would make her vulnerable in ways she hadn't counted on, putting her life in his hands while she was wrapped around him. It would be the first time she'd given him any control, and it was a lot of control to give. Too much. Too exposed, too intimate. Too _subject_ to him. She pulled a little on his hand, encouraging him in her direction. "There's a nice pub just down the street."

He stood in place. "Ride with me."

She stood in place now, too, working it through in her head. Her days of taking blind risks were long past her. She needed to play out possible scenarios and adjust. He stepped up against her. Still holding her hand, he put his arm around her back, bringing her arm with him. He held her tightly to his body and looked down at her.

"Ride with me."

Standing on the sidewalk outside her building, the November air brisk despite the closeness of his body, Desi met Tig's blue eyes steadily, and she played it out. She hadn't figured out what this was between them, whether it was just play and would be over as soon as they moved on to newer things, or whether there was actually something else happening. All she knew was that he was volatile. She couldn't give control over to someone like him without a better understanding.

"No."

His arm twitched at the word, and for a second he was holding her hard enough that it hurt. "Desi, shit. Give me _something_. Ride with me."

"No. I'm sorry." She really was. At the moment, she couldn't think of anything sexier, anything she wanted to do more, than to be on his Dyna with him, his body between her legs. And she didn't like the hurt she saw flash in his eyes.

He released her and stepped back. Without a word, he turned and headed to his bike.

She stood and watched him ride off, then went back up to her apartment.

-oOo-

Desi slept well that night; she almost always slept well. But she woke up out of sorts. Much more bothered by Tig's leaving than she expected, she sat in her kitchen and brooded through a couple of cups of coffee.

It didn't make any sense. She knew virtually nothing about him, not even his real name. She couldn't think of even a single sentence that had passed between them that wasn't sexually oriented or simply banter. What little she did know of him should have been enough to suggest that even continuing to play was a bad idea, much less any kind of emotional entanglement. Hell, the one person she trusted who knew Tig fairly well—Frank—didn't like him.

But there had been moments, a string of little moments since she'd met him, where she'd felt the stirring of a connection between them. A look in his eye, a touch. Here and there. And then that lingering moment after Samantha had gone, when they'd been on the bed together. His hand on her leg. Comfortable. She couldn't work it out more clearly than that. Which meant it was silly romantic bullshit and she couldn't believe she was even entertaining the thought.

Desi wasn't a romantic. She had been in love, certainly, and she had enjoyed it. She had been in a couple of relationships that she'd thought might have a future. She wasn't bitter that they had turned out not to have—even when things had ended very badly, she hadn't reacted by shutting herself off from the possibility of love. But she didn't need romantic love to complete her. She found her fulfillment within.

Her sexual tastes weren't conducive to monogamy, anyway. She liked variety. She wasn't sure she'd say she needed it, but she definitely noticed its absence. Very few people tolerated that well once emotions were involved.

So there was no reason at all for her to be especially bothered that Tig had left upset the night before, or to feel guilt that he'd been hurt by her refusal to ride with him. And yet her first thought upon waking had been disappointment that he wasn't in her bed. Her second thought had been regret that she'd hurt him. She had, too—there had been a clear, naked flash of pain in his bright blue eyes.

For the best. An ending here was for the best. They'd had a couple of delightful experiences, and now they were of the past. Good. Moving on. She put away the clean toys from the night before, grabbed her duffel, and headed to the gym.

-oOo-

She'd been a runner in high school, and, with the exception of her early and mid-20s, when she was deep in the punk scene and fitness was not exactly her priority, she'd been a runner ever since. A couple of years ago she'd added CrossFit training to her running regimen, and now, in her mid-heading-to-late 40s, she had the best body she'd ever had. At least, it was the best body she'd ever wanted. She was muscular instead of thin, so her body wasn't classically beautiful (the ink probably got in the way of "classic" anything anyway), but she loved it. She was strong, and it showed.

She did a 60 minute workout and swam laps for 30 minutes. Coming out of the shower afterwards, she saw Raquel—Rocky—a sometime workout buddy and playful friend, standing nude at the mirrors, bent at the waist, drying her hair. Desi walked to the mirrors and rubbed her towel through her hair until Rocky turned the dryer off.

After that last scene with Tig, she felt like she needed a palate cleanser.

Rocky had muscle tone like Desi but was several inches shorter, with a much flatter chest and ass. She was solidly built. The two of them had gotten up to some fairly athletic stuff in Desi's swing.

"Hi, sweetheart. You're here early today." Rocky usually worked out in the afternoons, before work. She was a bartender at a trendy brewhouse a few blocks from Desi's place.

"Des!" She gave Desi a hug and squeezed her ass. "Yeah, I'm off today, so I thought why not. Only did a 30, though. Shoulder's bugging me." She rolled her left shoulder.

Desi stepped behind Rocky, put her hands on that shoulder, and started to massage gently. "Hurt yourself?"

"I don't think so. Just getting old, I guess." Rocky moaned lightly and dropped her head.

Desi laughed. "Fuck you. You're ten years younger than I am." Rocky reached her hands back and pulled Desi close. Two older women came in from the sauna and looked askance at them in their intimate pose. Desi smiled and nodded a greeting, and the old farts skittered on their way.

She kissed Rocky's shoulder and smiled at her reflection in the mirror. "You have to rush off?"

"Nope. I'm all yours. What d'you have in mind?"

Desi trailed a hand down Rocky's arm. "Want to go down on me in the sauna?"

"Where those old bitches just were?"

"It's empty now. Except for those two, the whole locker room is empty. We can change the vibe in there." She reached a hand around and slid it between Rocky's legs, pushing her fingers into her.

Rocky gasped and bucked her hips as Desi slid her now-wet fingers up and over Rocky's clit. "What—you think they'll come over all gay the next time they're in there because we fucked on the bench?"

"That would be cool, though, wouldn't it?"

"No, actually it'll be hot. I'll need another shower," Rocky complained as she followed Desi into the sauna.

It _was_ hot. But the heat was soothing, relaxing. Desi leaned back on the bench, resting on her elbows. Rocky knelt between her legs and dove right in, her hands playing with Desi's breasts while her lips and tongue moved over her clit and inside her. Usually, Desi held off her orgasm, always testing herself, but today she just wanted to come. She wanted the feel of a woman on her. So she relaxed into it, letting her head drop back. She came quietly. Rocky stayed on her clit until she was completely through.

Then Desi pulled her up and sat her between her legs, facing away. Rocky raised her arms and wrapped her hands around Desi's head. Her arm across Rocky's chest, that hand tweaking Rocky's closest nipple, Desi put her other hand back between Rocky's legs and worked her until she went rigid and Desi, whispering sweet little dirty things in her ear all the while, felt her juices wet her hand.

When Rocky had her breath back and was relaxed in Desi's embrace, she looked back at her. "Fuck, Des. That sexy talk? So hot. Nobody makes me come like you do."

Desi laughed and caressed Rocky's belly, but said nothing. Rocky finally sat forward. "I gotta get out of here before I pass out. You want to go get coffee or something?"

"No, sweetheart. I need to get going. I'll see you soon." Desi kissed her on the cheek and left the sauna first.

-oOo-

Around 11pm on an average night a couple of weeks later, while Desi was in the playroom watching over a threesome, Big Frank triggered the alert light—there was trouble on the floor. She hated to leave anyone unattended in the playroom, but Big Frank didn't trigger that alert without good cause. She took a tall, gnarled walking stick from a corner of the room and went to the main floor.

It wasn't chaos, not yet, but it was bad. There hadn't been a serious fight in her club in more than four years, but that streak was now broken, and this had the makings of a goddamn riot. In the midst of a rowdy ring of spectators, Raven was in the middle of the dance floor, straddling some guy in tattered Docs, ripped jeans, and greasy hair and beating the shit out of him. Toad was dragging two other guys by their scruffs out of the room—she assumed he was taking them to the room he called his control room—which is _where the fuck Raven should have taken his guy, too_. A crowd like this, violence begets violence, and she could see it happening.

Toad and Raven were so physically imposing that their presence had clearly quelled a lot of the side fighting. But now Toad was out of the room and Raven was out of his mind. Scrapes were rising up among the spectators. Big Frank came up to her with the Louisville Slugger he kept behind the bar.

"Here we go, Des. You ready?"

She nodded grimly. Lovely to be in the middle of this in 5-inch platform S&M boots, leather lace-up pants, and a corset, but she was ready. The music was still playing, blaring Black Flag, because Mike was gaping at Raven's display. Desi went back to the bar and flipped the house lights up. That got Mike's attention, and he killed the sound system.

The guy Raven was fighting, despite having his ass handed to him, wasn't giving up. Probably running on coke or something. Better not have gotten it here, or Desi was going to get forceful with some folks. The crowd was too thick and getting too antsy for anyone to try to push through them to break up the fight—Toad was the only one who could have managed it, and he was still out of the room.

Desi thought. She had maybe a minute before this shifted from a fight with a big rowdy audience to a full-on bar brawl. Big Frank came up, looking for direction. She grabbed his arm. "I've got an idea."

She told him what to do and then hoisted herself up to the bar. When she was standing on it, legs spread, facing the scene, Big Frank killed all the lights, leaving the club in utter blackness. In the half second of quiet shock that stops everyone in their tracks when the lights go out, Desi yelled "People!" Big Frank popped a spot on Desi. Everyone turned to the light. Then, once Desi had the room's attention, he turned the dance lights up.

"We all need to calm the fuck down. Tearing this place apart only means we'll have no place to go. So be good little boys and girls and shake hands. When everybody chills out and makes up, I'll buy the house a round."

There was a cheer, and the fractious mob shifted once again to its natural, more harmless state, converging in a fairly orderly fashion on the bar. Nothing more than Big Frank and Nikki could handle. Raven had his guy up off the floor now and was escorting him away. Situation resolved. But she wanted Raven's head.

She turned around, and Big Frank was there to help her down. "Damn, Des, you were like some kind of Goth goddess up there, all spread out, that stick in the air. A Valkyrie or something. It was impressive as hell."

She wasn't in the mood to be admired. "Debrief after close. Make sure Raven keeps his ass here." She went back to the playroom, where her threesome was still at it, having missed the whole thing.

-oOo-

After close, they all sat around the bar, and Desi, not one to lose her temper, spoke levelly. "So, tell me."

Toad spoke up first. "They were getting feisty—one of 'em threw a bottle at Mike's cage." The DJ and his equipment were protected by chain link. "There were three, so Rave called for help getting them out. Guy Rave was on spit in his face. Des, you know we can't let that go."

She certainly knew that. "No, we can't. That's what your control room is for. To control these scenes."

Again, Toad spoke. Raven simply sat there, scowling. "I took the guy's asshole buddies back there. I'm good, Des, but I can't get three guys down that hall at once."

Desi was quiet for a couple of minutes, working out Toad's investment. He was coming to Raven's defense in ways that surprised her. He'd vouched for Raven, sure, but he knew full well that Desi wouldn't hold it against him if Raven turned out to be the sociopath Desi was feeling increasingly convinced he was. Her first and still strongest inclination was to fire Raven's ass, but Toad was showing his loyal side, and only a handful of people got that treatment. There was more here.

"Raven, now would be a good time to step in, rather than let Toad plead your case. Why the fuck were you administering a beatdown in the middle of my dance floor? Why didn't you drag your guy down the hall after Toad?"

"He spit. In. My face." He shut up and crossed his arms, sulking aggressively.

Oh, yeah, she wanted to fire him. But she decided to play it out a bit longer, try to understand Toad's place in all this. Desi walked up to Raven and met his eyes. "I don't give a fuck. You do something stupid like that again and risk my club, and you won't just be out of a job, you'll be out of a goddamn _state_."

Raven started to rise up off the stool, but Toad, sitting next to him, grabbed his arm. "Easy, man. Easy." Raven sat back down. Desi looked at one, then the other, and then she walked away and headed back to her apartment.

Somehow she'd ended up with _two_ black-haired, unpredictable, violent men fucking with her status quo at the same time, one in her life and one in her work.

Not that Tig was still fucking with her status quo. She hadn't heard from him since he'd walked away from her on the street.

But he was still in her damn head.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: **Tig goes far, far off the rails. Violently. Remember how I warned you about the potential for angst and brutality? Brutality, then angst.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 9:  
**"Mr. Self Destruct," Nine Inch Nails

They pulled into the lot and parked. Hap was off first and striding to the clubhouse while the rest of the Sons were still on their bikes. Tig sullenly watched him go. Ever since the blanket thing, Hap barely spoke to him. That was Desi's fucking fault, too.

Since that day at Juice's place, way back in the summer, Tig felt like his brain had sprung a leak somewhere, a slow drip, and his gears were grinding down. His best friend wanted nothing to do with him. He was obsessed with a bitch whom he'd barely affected. Even now, almost three months since he'd laid eyes on her, she was a good 80 percent of what he thought about. He'd relived their encounters hundreds of times; he remembered every moment vividly. He _dreamed_ them. Nothing he could do with the Crow Eaters could compare. He'd tried—but it was getting to the point that he could barely be bothered to fuck them.

But he hadn't gone back to Sacramento. He hadn't called her again. He had some fucking pride. She'd made him beg, and he'd fucking done it. But she wouldn't give him anything. She wouldn't even ride with him. He didn't care how hot the sex was or how captivating she herself was. He was nobody's bitch. So he stayed away.

But she'd still managed to fuck everything up. His friendship with Hap. His enjoyment of sex. Fuck, even his job. He'd lost focus today and almost fucked the whole job, almost turning what should have been a simple drop into a firefight. Hap had saved Tig's ass _and_ saved the job from being a complete clusterfuck.

He went into the clubhouse. Hap was sitting at the bar with a glass of Jack; Pepboy was behind the bar. Tig said, "Tequila," and sat down. Hap got up immediately and walked away.

Fucking drama queen. Holding a six-month grudge over a _fucking piece of cloth_.

Pep boy handed him a glass of tequila, and he tossed it back. "Again." Pep poured him another.

Chibs sat next to him and slung his arm across his shoulders. "Havin' a rough time of late, brutha."

He wasn't in a bonding mood, so he tossed back his glass and nodded for Pep to fill it again.

Apparently undeterred, Chibs said, "He'll get o'er it eventually. You know Hap. He's a sour fuck, but he loves ya."

"I don't fuckin' care. You'd think I raped his kid. He can suck my dick."

Chibs pulled his arm away and sat straight, looking at Tig. Tig could see the stare out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't turn.

"Brutha, whate'er's got ya twisted up, you got to get straight wi' it. It's in yer way. It's gettin' in our way now. Get straight." He got up, put a firm hand on Tig's shoulder, kissed the top of his head with an audible smack, gave it a push, and walked off, bottle of Jameson in hand.

He had no idea how long he sat there alone, but he'd finally given up waiting on Pep to pour him drinks and had snatched the bottle for himself. He thought of Piney and his straws. He missed the old bastard. He put his head down.

He realized that it was quiet, and he looked around to see that he was alone. Had everyone gone home? Jesus. Buncha pussies. He stood, reeling a little until he got his legs steady, and headed to the kitchen. He was hungry.

Junie was in there. She turned to see who'd come in and took a step back when she saw him. Tig liked Junie. She had loose joints and a strong constitution. He bet he could get _something_ straight with her. He grabbed his crotch. Yep. At least one thing.

"Hey, doll. Let's go."

Junie wiped her hands on the towel she was holding. She was wringing her hands in the towel, in fact. "Hi, Tig. You know what? I was just heading home. It's late, and I got an early day tomorrow. Next time?"

He was very drunk, but he was fairly certain he'd just heard a fucking club gash turn him down. "You want to try that again?"

"Tig, it's just—I—I really like it, I do, but I'm still sore. The doctor said—that thing you did—" she swallowed and backed into the corner of the counter. He remembered hearing that she'd ended up in the ER last week. Apparently, that was him. "I need a little break is all."

Bitch was scared. His cock got harder, and his head felt clearer than it had in a while. He walked up to loom over her. "I said _let's go_."

"Tig, please."

He grabbed her arm, intending to lead her down the hall. But she was really scared—she was shaking. It made him extra horny, and he didn't want to wait. "Take your pants off."

She swallowed hard and did as she was told. He shoved her over the butcher-block island and gave her ass several hard slaps, until she was a bright, shiny, lovely red and he could see imprints of his fingers in her skin. Then he opened his jeans and grabbed a condom out of his pocket.

She was crying—no, she was sobbing. That didn't usually bother him, but as he opened the condom and reached for his cock, he realized that he'd gone soft. What the fuck?

Junie turned her head to see what was going on. When she saw—even though she was still crying, her face ugly, puffy, and wet—she laughed. _She laughed_. And then she said, "Well, look at that. Never thought I'd see the day."

She kept laughing. For another few seconds, anyway. Until he grabbed her throat.

-oOo-

He sat on the kitchen floor and tried to clear his head. He was too fucking drunk to think. He was truly alone in the clubhouse now. He put his hands up to rub his eyes, but pulled them away when he realized that he was rubbing blood all over his face.

His hands were red with it. His clothes, too. He looked around the kitchen. There was blood everywhere. Junie was lying on the floor at the foot of the island. Most of her, anyway. There were bits of her on the island, too, where he'd slammed her head until _it_ had gone soft.

He laughed. Add Gemma to the list of people pissed off at him. She was going to pop a vein when she saw what he'd done to her kitchen.

Then he started to cry.

Jesus. What had he fucking done?

When he was calm again, he tried to force himself to think about what he needed to do. He needed to get rid of her. He needed to clean up.

He needed help. He dialed the prepay.

-oOo-

"Christ. Fucking Christ. Get the fuck up, asshole." Hap stood in the kitchen doorway. Tig hadn't moved yet. He was sitting beside a cooling, coagulating puddle of Junie's blood.

"I said get up!" Already wearing rubber gloves and a plastic coverall, Hap came into the kitchen, grabbed Tig by his kutte and yanked him to his feet. "I'm not even gonna ask what the fuck happened. Let's just get this mess cleaned up.

They wrapped Junie's body in heavy plastic sheeting and bound the package with duct tape. Hap was careful to pick up all the remaining bits of her and collect them in plastic bags. They carried all of her out to the club van and then went back in and scrubbed the kitchen with bleach. They rewashed the pots and pans, anything that was sitting out. The island was wood, and a lot of blood had seeped into it. Tig scrubbed for a long while, but the stain was deep. Finally, Hap went out to the garage and got the sander and just sanded the top down until the blood was gone.

Gemma was going to kick Tig's ass.

When the kitchen was thoroughly clean, Hap and Tig drove out to Hap's cabin. They dug a deep grave and laid her in it. In the hour or so before dawn, before they covered her up, Hap poured kerosene over her and lit her on fire.

Tig sat at the side of the grave and watched the flames.

-oOo-

After it was done, before they headed back to town, they leaned against the club van and smoked in silence. Tig's head was so loud, he couldn't hear a single clear thought. He just smoked, and stared at the place he knew her body was. No visible sign aboveground. No marker. No trace.

Pretty spot, though. Tig looked up into the morning sun dappling through the trees. The air smelled of cedar and eucalyptus, and the breeze was cool.

He'd liked Junie. She'd been a good girl.

Finally, Hap dropped his butt and stomped it out. "We gotta tell Jax, take it to the table."

Tig had killed a girl under the club's protection. _In_ the clubhouse. He could lose his fucking patch. "Hap, man—"

Hap cut him off with a severe wave of his hand. "She got kin? She got a place? She got a job? People who'll miss her?"

He could only shrug. "She's got a little blue car in the lot." That was all he knew of her.

Hap nodded. "This is some fucked up shit, Tig. She was _connected to the club_. This could hurt us all. Cripple us. I can't help you more'n I have. I can make a body disappear, but I can't make a life disappear. We need Juice."

He'd known Hap would never keep a secret like this from the club, something that could blow back on everybody. But he'd also known that Hap was the only one who could really help him do what needed to be done to make her body disappear. He hadn't considered what else she might be leaving behind. And the thought that it would be Juice who could save him—fuck, that stuck in his craw.

"Aw, fuck. That asshole?"

Hap hauled off with a right cross and put Tig on the ground. "You shat where we all eat, brother. Don't fuckin' whine at me because your supper tastes like turds. Let's go." He walked around to the driver's side, leaving Tig on his knees in the dirt.

-oOo-

Hap called Jax, and Jax called church right away. Within an hour, the Sons were sitting around the table while Tig told them what happened—or the parts they needed to know. Not that she'd laughed. Not why she'd laughed. That, he kept to himself. Hap described the cleanup and disposal. Then Juice worked out what he could do to create a story about Junie leaving town. Jax sent Tig and the Prospects to clear out Junie's things. In broad daylight, with a moving van, in service of the story Juice was writing, they packed up her life and carted it away.

Jax sent Tig out on that errand, but the rest of the Sons stayed—to discuss Tig. His life was breaking into pieces. Might as well cart it away, too.

They took her belongings to a storage locker that Juice had rented in her name. When they got back to T-M, Junie's little car was gone. The late afternoon sun was slanting into his eyes as he walked across the lot to the clubhouse, so he didn't see Jax until he was almost on top of him. The club President put his arm around Tig's shoulders, turned him back around and walked him to his bike. He handed Tig his helmet.

"Take some time, Tig. We're voting your patch on Friday. Three days. Go home, get cleaned up, take some time. You don't want to be here tonight." Jax gave him a quick hug, slapped him on the back, and returned to the clubhouse. Tig stood dumbfounded, his helmet in his hands like a beggar's bowl.

He'd just been turned away from the clubhouse.

-oOo-

Back at his apartment, he showered for a long time, standing immobile under the scalding stream. After he was dressed, he opened a bottle of beer and sat down at his kitchen table to clean his kutte.

He'd been a Son so long he hardly remembered his life before. The Sons _were_ his life. This kutte was his skin. He was nothing but a Son. If he lost the club, he lost everything.

Everything.

That he could lose it over a gash? That he would be stupid enough to _risk_ it over a gash? How the fuck had he let that happen?

This was Desi. It was fucking Desi. She'd done something to him, fucked with his head somehow, so that she was in it all the time, clogging it up, making him stupid. Maybe it was in the drug she'd given him. Maybe she'd really done something to him.

That fucking cunt.

He pulled his kutte on and headed out to his bike.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 10:  
**"Shadow on the Sun," Audioslave

It had been a long fucking day. Most days had been fucking long for a while. Desi poured herself another glass of pinot noir while she sautéed pork tenderloin medallions. She preferred to live alone, and she liked to cook, so she'd become adept at cooking well for one. She tossed herself a little salad, fixed a plate, poured herself a third glass of wine, sat down, and mused.

The renovations to the building next door were almost finished, but they'd of course gone over budget, and over time, and the tenants were getting impatient. She'd spent a lot of the day soothing snitty business people who were tired of noise and dust.

She and Toad had had yet another argument, as well. He was one of her best friends, and a trusted colleague, but since Raven's scene in the club a few months ago, things had been tense between them. Toad was stalwart in his support of Raven, but he would give her no insight into why. When she'd pressed him, insisting that she couldn't have someone she didn't trust working such an important role in her club, Toad had actually given her a "he goes, I go" ultimatum. She'd been shocked, and she'd backed down, unwilling to lose him.

She'd left that meeting angrier than she'd been in a very long time. She didn't lose power plays. She walked away from ultimatums. Toad had traded on their friendship, and that had hurt her badly. He'd softened later, trying to explain that he couldn't explain, but that he loved her and asked for her trust. She'd accepted that, but it had changed things fundamentally between them. And now she had a volatile bouncer working her club and a much less trusted friend. There hadn't been any more incidents, but Desi felt unsettled in her own space now. That wouldn't stand for long.

Everything had felt unsettled since before the holidays. This new year was boding ill already. She'd been cycling through playmates at an accelerated rate, too, the past few months, feeling voracious, unsatisfied. It had gotten to the point that a couple—Rocky, especially—were starting to think there might be a potential for something more serious. No such potential existed, so when, a couple of weeks ago, she realized that she was seeing too much of people too often, she just shut it all down. Now feelings were hurt, but Desi found that she was too tired to salve them. Rocky had turned the other way when Desi had seen her at the gym that afternoon. Desi had just gone on about her workout.

She wasn't sure what had happened. It was just a bad spell, though, she was sure. Things would level back out. The building would be done, the tenants and the city would be happy. Raven was behaving. She and Toad would probably not totally recover, but they'd been friends a long time. They'd find a new way to be friends. And there'd never be a shortage of people to fuck.

But she couldn't remember another time in her life when so many things were shifting unstably at once. Not in her adult life, anyway. She'd spent a lot of time and energy building a life for herself where things didn't shift unstably.

She cleaned up after dinner and headed to her little den to read. She'd had four glasses of wine, which was a lot for her anymore, but she was home alone, and she felt relaxed for the first time in awhile. She had just curled up in her chair, scrolling through the books loaded into her iPad, trying to decide which of the five or six she had in progress she was in the mood for, when the elevator phone rang.

That phone almost never rang unless she was expecting it to—certainly not so late in the evening, after delivery hours. Feeling curious but guarded, she got up and answered it.

"I need to come up."

The voice was rough, masculine. It had been months since she'd heard it. The nerves in the floor of her belly tensed—whether in warning or excitement, she wasn't sure. Both. "Tig?"

"I need to come up." She detected something in his voice, even through the handset. Something sharp and bright. Brittle. There was risk in letting him up; she could hear it.

She needed a minute to decide what to do. "What are you doing here, Tig?"

"_I fucking need to come up_!" Definitely risk. She didn't know him at all, but she knew that she heard something eruptive in his voice. That was obvious.

She was safe where she was. On the fifth floor, no access without a key. The stairwell door was locked to him, too. She could just hang up and go back to her book.

She released the elevator. "Okay."

When she heard the elevator moving, ascending slowly, she walked back a few paces. The risk she'd just taken was blind as hell. Shocked by her own recklessness, she forced herself to think some scenarios through as quickly as she could, come up with contingencies. But she had no idea what to expect or why he was here. She grabbed her phone off the table by the elevator and slid it into her jeans pocket, then stepped back again.

The elevator opened and he stepped out—and then simply stood there. Now the nerves in her belly were bound up in a fist and throbbing. He looked wild and dangerous. Furious. Lost. He was wearing his knife, bound to his right thigh.

She was in trouble. "Tig?"

"Fuck you." He whispered it, then came at her. She moved backwards, but hit the side of a sofa, and in the time it took to shift around it, he was on her, his hands in her hair, gripping her head, his mouth on hers.

Considering the way he'd been looking at her, she'd thought hitting her was at least as likely as kissing her—more, even. It took her a second to adjust. But this she could work with. Even real sexual aggression she thought she could manage—certainly better than she'd be able to manage a beating. Or a stabbing. She put her hands in his hair and kissed him back. Now the fist in her belly unclenched and spread wide, strumming through her clit, making her wet.

When her tongue moved against his, though, he reared back, pushing away. "What did you do to me, bitch? What did you fucking _do_ to me?" He raked his hands through his hair. She recognized the gesture, and the words, from the morning after he'd taken the molly. Rage. She didn't know why it was directed at her after all this time, but she had been able to bring him down before. That tack, then, was her best place to start. Calm, direct, reasonable. Her natural inclination anyway.

"Tig, think. I haven't seen you in months. I haven't done anything to you. I couldn't have. I'm glad to see you, though. Let's sit down and talk." She took a measured step toward him and reached out her hand.

He batted it away and grabbed her under her arms, carrying her back several feet and slamming her against the wall. She gasped at the impact, but in surprise more than pain. Her feet were off the floor entirely. His eyes were crystalline with fury—fury and something else. She couldn't read it. Fear, maybe? Desperation? That wasn't good. "You put something in the E. You had to. Something that stayed in my head, twisting up in there. What was it? _What did you do to me_?"

She kept her voice calm. "I promise, Tig. I didn't. Look at me. Look at my eyes. I promise. I'm sorry you're hurting. I will help you if I can. Let me go. Let me help you." He did look into her eyes, and she could see confusion, doubt, rise up into his rage. Whether that was an improvement or not remained to be seen, but it was a change, and a change meant a chance to shift control. Her hands were free, because he was holding her ribs. Touching him was a risk, she knew, but she prepared herself for any reaction and put her hand on his cheek.

He dropped her and jumped back. Again he raked his hair back. Then he started pounding on his forehead with the heels of his palms. "You're in here. You're in here. You're all twisted up in here, fucking everything up, and I can't get you OUT. I want you OUT!"

And then he was crying. He dropped to his knees in her living room, folded over, and wept.

The scariest thing about that moment was how his evident pain made her feel. It hurt her heart. Instead of thinking about how to handle him to keep herself safe, what wanted attention in her head was a need to comfort him. She hadn't seen him in months. She barely knew him. He'd stormed into her home and threatened her. He was still a threat to her—a serious threat. And yet she wanted to make him feel better.

She forced herself to take a beat and play it out before she did anything. Then, telling herself she was as ready as she could be, she knelt next to him and put a hand on his head, threading her fingers into his hair. "Tig," she whispered.

He flinched. "Everything's so fucked up. How did it get so fucked up?"

She didn't know what he was talking about. She'd seen Frank a few times, and had talked to her a few more, in the span of time since she'd last seen Tig, but he'd never come up. Frank didn't like him, and she was made uncomfortable by the thought of Desi doing anything with him, so they just left it alone. And then it hadn't mattered, because it had seemed apparent that whatever had happened between Desi and Tig had been short-lived.

Until tonight, when he'd turned up in this extremity and maybe changed everything.

But she had no idea what had been going on with him, and she had no idea what to say now. So she knelt at his side and combed her fingers through his hair, trying to soothe him. He let her, and eventually he calmed. He sat back, his face flushed and wet with shed tears. He caught the hand that had been in his hair and held it. "Why are you in my head?"

"I don't know, love. I'm sorry." She turned her hand so she could wrap her fingers around his. He responded by tightening his grip. He looked down at their link and then returned his intense blue gaze to her eyes. She began to think the crisis might have passed. She smiled a little; she hoped he would read reassurance there. "Do you want to talk?"

He studied her silently for a few seconds before he answered. "No. Not talk." He yanked on the hand he was holding and dragged her to him.

There was a part of her, the part that had been aroused and thrumming since she'd heard his voice in the phone, that wanted to cede control there and then. It was another thing that scared her more than he did, and she dragged reason to the forefront of her mind. As he put her down on the floor, she stiff-armed him. "Tig, wait."

"Fuck you." He pushed his weight down on her hands, but she was strong, stronger than he knew, and she held him off.

"No. Wait." She shifted, setting him off balance, and used that moment to roll out from under him. In a fluid spin, she stood and held out her hand to him. "Come into my bed. You don't have to take by force what I want to give you."

He sat on the floor and looked up at her, his eyes searching hers. He seemed desolate. "Come on, Tig. Let me help you."

He took her hand and stood; she led him into her bedroom.

Thinking about the first time she had him in that room, she led him to the foot of her bed. There, she faced him and took his hand. She was wearing a black knit wrap-around top. He was silent and watchful as she brought his hand to her back and put it on the tie that held her top together. Giving his hand a squeeze, she took her hand away.

At first, Tig did nothing. Then it dawned on him what she'd done, and he pulled the tie loose. With a low growl, he opened her shirt. Having been enjoying a quiet night alone at home, she was braless. Growling louder now, he put his hands over her breasts, her nipples pressed into his rough palms. She took a deep breath and arched a little into his touch.

She had made a decision. The night's developments had been unexpected and had moved much too quickly for her to know whether it was a good decision, but she'd made it, and her feelings were, absent clear evidence one way or the other, it was better to stick with a decision once made than it was to continue flailing madly around.

She gave herself over.

Sliding his hands up over her breasts, he pushed her top off her shoulders, and she shook it to the floor. His hands were in her hair then, on her head, pulling her close. She let him draw her tightly against his chest. The feel of the leather of his kutte hard against the soft flesh of her breasts made her breath catch in her throat.

His mouth claimed hers, his tongue filling her, the force of his kiss bending her backwards. Understanding that he needed the control, she let her arms dangle loosely, resisting the urge to wrap them around his neck and hold him close.

Then his hands moved down her back to her waist, while his mouth was moving down her neck, along her collarbone, leaving a wet trail down her breast bone, until he had a nipple in his mouth. He suckled it soundly, groaning as he did so. The pleasure was intense; Desi felt the pull of his mouth throughout her body, and she laced her fingers into his hair and moaned.

Tig moved to the other breast and suckled that likewise, still groaning constantly, like a hum. He was being shockingly gentle, sucking firmly but without using his teeth at all. He hands held her waist tenderly.

And then he knelt before her, his hands moving over her belly easily but not too lightly. The kind of touch Desi liked. His finger traced the dragon's tail that looped her navel. His mouth followed the same path.

His hands came together at the button of her jeans. She thought he was going to open them, but he stopped and peered up at her. When she met his eyes, he whispered, "Desi."

Jesus. He was making love to her.

No, she didn't want that. _Everything_ was wrong with that. She felt a thrill of anxiety, but she knew better than to react visibly. His emotional state was obviously fragile, and rejecting him after she'd drawn him in here would be beyond stupid. Deadly, maybe. So she took a long, deep breath and reclaimed her center. She carried on, giving herself back over to what he was doing. She'd sort the emotional laundry later.

His mouth followed the path of the buttons on her jeans, and then his hands slid into them and around to her ass to push the old, soft denim off her hips and to the floor. She wasn't wearing underwear, either, so when she stepped out of her jeans and he tossed them away, she was standing nude, while he knelt before her fully dressed—boots, kutte, knife, and all.

He lifted her left leg and laid it on his shoulder so that her knee hooked over and her calf lay on his back. Then he leaned in, his hands clutching her ass, and pressed his mouth and tongue to her most sensitive place.

She gasped, and he pulled back and looked up into her face. "Fuck, baby. You're so wet for me."

Without thinking about it, she brushed his hair back from his forehead. He closed his eyes at the touch, and then he leaned in again and commenced sucking on her clit. She was standing on one leg. She wondered if he realized the muscle tone it took to stay balanced on one leg while being eaten out.

It didn't matter—she had the tone. And what he was doing—being gentle and demanding in turns, sucking and licking, changing the tempo and pressure unpredictably—was incredible. The feel of the beard around his mouth only enhanced her pleasure. Then a hand left her ass to intrude between her thighs, and he pushed one rough finger into her, then another. Then another. Another. Having decided not to hold back, she was wracked with sensation, gasping and writhing, her hands knotting into the shoulders of his kutte. She was close, so close, and she could feel that her release would be enormous.

Then he stopped. He moved his fingers out of her and his mouth away from her. He looked up with a grin—there was the cocky Alpha—and removed his rings, setting them in a pile on the floor at his knees. She was dizzy with wine and near ecstasy and couldn't figure out what he was up to. But then he returned to her clit, his fingers sliding back into her, and she didn't care.

He pulled back from her clit again and started moving his whole hand, palm and back, between her legs, moving back and forth as if his hand were a paintbrush. Everything about his touch brought her closer and closer to orgasm, but she wasn't there yet. She almost cried out with relief when he was sucking on her clit again, his fingers returning to fill her.

With a single, forceful move, he fisted her. At the exact same time, he bit down into the flesh around her clit and sucked hard. The shock and sensation crashed together inside her, and she screamed, coming so hard she actually achieved liftoff, her foot leaving the floor. Tig released her clit and caught her with his free hand before she fell, turning his hand inside her as he did so. She screamed again, and he pulled his hand out and gathered her into his arms, finishing her with his hand on her clit.

Exhausted and completely relaxed in his arms, she felt the rough of leather, metal, and denim on her skin and remembered that he was still dressed.

He stood with her in his arms and went to the bed. Pulling the covers back first, he laid her down. She watched him as he stripped, noting that he took the time to fold his kutte and lay it carefully on her dresser. He unstrapped his knife sheath and laid it on his kutte.

Before he got into bed with her, she pointed to her armoire and said, "Condoms." With a smile and a nod, he went over to it and came out with a strip of condoms. She was surprised—pleased, but surprised—that he didn't get distracted in there and come out with more than prophylactics.

Pulling a condom from the strip and palming it, he set the rest on the nightstand and slid into bed with her, resting at her side, on his elbow. His kiss was gentle, his hand on her face, tracing her ink. She sensed that this sweet behavior should concern her almost more than the desperate wildness he'd come into her apartment with, but she had lost the edge of her caution. For this night, she'd given herself over, ceded control.

He shifted and knelt between her legs, sitting back on his heels. He said her name again, a rough whisper on an exhale of breath, and as she shivered at the sound, she knew again that she was getting in too deep. But it was too late to care. She watched him roll the condom on, and then he lifted her legs onto his chest. She let him move her where he would. He grabbed her hips in his calloused hands and plunged into her, rising up on his knees.

She loved the slick slide of his cock inside her. He was big, and she felt him everywhere, could feel the ridge of his glans stretching her flesh. His strokes were long and deep, and he watched her face as he filled and emptied her over and over. She couldn't meet his blue stare anymore; it was too intense, too intent. Without disrupting his rhythm, she kicked a leg over and rolled to her side, changing his entry and giving herself space to look away from him.

The change in sensation with this sidewise entry was abrupt and intense, and she cried out—he felt it too, because he grunted so hard he practically barked, and he dropped to his hands, looming over her. His breathing was heavy and harsh, and he doubled his pace. He was hitting her G-spot over and over, the intensity of the contact almost but not quite pain. Perfect. She grabbed handfuls of her gold brocade comforter and breathed into the pleasure. But then he rolled her back to face him, wrapping his hands under her ass and hoisting her up, still pounding steadily, forcefully into her.

"Ah, God. Ah, God. Desi, you gotta come. Baby, come on. Come on." There was a part of her that didn't want to, that wanted to hold that away from him. But that wasn't the choice she'd made. She wrapped her arms around his back, pulling herself up to him. He understood; he moved his hands to her back and sat on his heels, bringing her into his lap. Knotted up with him, shivering at the feel of his downy chest against her breasts, she ground on his hips as he kept flexing.

She felt it coiling out from her belly, into her joints. She loved this moment, the moment when release was all but certain, when she could feel the coming ecstasy everywhere—in her knees, her elbows, her jaw, behind her eyes. She heard herself keening. Tig grabbed her head and kissed her, his tongue plunging into her mouth, mirroring the movement of his cock inside her.

And then it was there, and she pulled away from his mouth and bit down on her own lip, pushing against his hips, trying to get him deeper, her hips bucking so hard she could feel the abrasion of the coarse hair on his thighs against the tender bare flesh of hers. She clutched her fingers on his shoulders and tossed her head back, feeling every muscle in her body grow taut.

"Yeah, baby. Yeah. God, that's it. God, yeah. Oh, yeah. Oh, fuck!" He rose up off his heels and put her down on the bed, pounding into her like a rutting animal until he went rigid and then, finally, collapsed onto her.

After several long, quiet minutes, Tig, much calmer now, rolled to his side next to her. He pulled the condom off and dropped it to the floor next to the bed. She didn't object; she was too tired and too thrown to object. She'd clean it up later.

"Desi—"

She rolled to face him. "No. Shut up. Sleep. We'll talk tomorrow." She had no idea what time it was; she had a sense it was still quite early. But she needed this night to end.

He brushed her cheekbone with his thumb. "Okay."

She nodded and rolled to her back. After a minute, Tig lifted her shoulder and scooted under it, shifting her to her side, pulling her back against him and resting his hand on her belly.

He'd made them spoons. She hadn't spooned with anyone in years.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 11:  
**"I Nearly Lost You," Screaming Trees

Tig woke and didn't know where he was. It was dark. He had a brief moment of alarm, and then he remembered. Desi. He was in her bed, between her rich, soft linens, his head on her lush pillows.

Her body was still pressed to his. He could smell her cinnamony scent. He could also smell their sex, and it made him hard. He squeezed her closer to him and kissed her head. She stirred slightly in her sleep, her ass moving on his swollen cock.

He thought for a moment about spreading her cheeks and pushing into her—she was _right there_—but he didn't want to disturb her sleep. He'd come to her apartment looking to hurt her, maybe kill her. Instead, he'd fucked her—no, it had been more than that. He didn't know what it had been, but it hadn't been a fucking. He'd felt close to her. Connected. She'd helped him. She'd been calm and steady in the face of his meltdown, and she'd helped him.

His life was a fucking mess—hell, it might even be just about over. He didn't think they'd vote to bring him to Mr. Mayhem over a Crow Eater, but if he lost his patch, they might as well. It would be a mercy. He had no life away from the Sons.

But here, in Desi's bed, he was calm despite what he faced. He felt an urge to pull her even closer, and he did, pulling his head up a bit to kiss her shoulder.

She stirred again, and this time she turned her head to look over her shoulder at him. "You okay, love?" Her voice was low and heavy with sleep.

"Yeah. Didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep." She nodded and turned back. As she settled again into sleep she nestled against him, just a bit more. Feeling cozy, he closed his eyes and let sleep have him back.

-oOo-

When he woke again, it was daylight, and Desi was lying on her back next to him. At first he thought she was still asleep, but she turned her head when he moved. He smiled and scooted closer. "Mornin'." He put his hand on her flat, firm belly and spread his fingers wide.

She smiled back, a small smile that barely tipped up on one side. "How are you this morning?"

"I feel okay. Hey—I'm sorry I came in like that. Didn't mean to scare you."

She moved his hand off of her and sat up. "Sure you did."

She was right. And he'd had more in mind than scaring her. "Well, yeah, I did—but I'm sorry." He sat up, too, feeling a little guarded now, and leaned back against the headboard.

Without turning to face him, she asked, "Want to tell me what that was about?"

There was nothing about what was going on in Charming that he could or would or wanted to tell her. "Nah. Club shit. Doesn't matter."

Now she tipped her head down and looked back at him. For several awkward seconds, she simply regarded him sidewise like that. Then she lifted her head, looked forward, and nodded. She folded the covers back and got up.

"Desi, wait—where're you going?"

"I'm taking a shower. There's juice in the fridge and fruit on the counter. If you know how to grind the beans, you can make coffee. Help yourself before you go." She went into her bathroom and closed the door.

Go? He didn't want to go. He _wasn't_ going. Last night, he'd felt—he didn't know what he'd felt with her last night, but he knew he didn't want to go away from her yet. He thought he'd somehow pissed her off, as if whatever connection they'd had last night he'd broken this morning. He didn't understand.

But he needed this. Whatever it was, he needed it. That much he understood.

Hearing the water for the shower start up, he took a second and tried to think—fuck it. Think later. He got up and went to the bathroom door. He didn't knock; he just grabbed the doorknob. He was going in.

She'd locked it. That fact gave him about two seconds' pause, and then he stepped back and kicked the door in. He was naked, and it hurt the shit out of his foot, but he'd kicked lots of doors in and knew exactly how to do it, aiming his heel just up and to the side of the knob. The door gave with a crack and a crash. He walked in.

Her bathroom was large and elegant—glass tiles in shades of green covering the floor and walls; dark, sleek wood cabinetry. The sink was one of those porcelain bowl things; Tig had never seen one actually in somebody's bathroom before. The shower was simply the corner of the room, set off from the rest by a ¾ wall of glass brick. Desi was standing at the end of that wall, wet and slick, staring at him. His cock stood right up at the sight of her.

"You broke my door down." She glanced at his cock, then returned her eyes to his.

He stood still, just inside the doorway. "You locked me out."

"Because I wanted privacy."

"You walked away from me." Now he walked toward her.

She sighed heavily and put her hands on her hips, but her voice remained calm. She was always so goddamned _calm_. He wanted to see her furious. Or elated. He wanted to make her lose her fucking cool. "Because I wanted to be alone. Scratch that—I _want_ to be alone. Playtime's over, champ. Time to go."

He was standing right in front of her, looking down into her wet face. The water from the running shower hit his legs. She had it almost scalding hot—the same way he liked it. He put his hands on her waist. "That wasn't play, Desi."

Her hand in the middle of his chest, she pushed him back. "Yeah, it was. And now it's done."

"No. It wasn't play. Not for me, and not for you. I was there. We're not done." He started to knock her hand away, but instead he took it in his own and pulled it around him, pulling her close that way.

Her body was tense in his arms. "Tig. Get. _The fuck_. Out of my house." Oh, wait. Was she angry? He studied her eyes—she had fascinating eyes, so many colors, and they seemed different every time he looked. Now they flashed and glittered. Yeah—she was angry. He grinned.

"I'm not goin' anywhere, doll. We're not done." He fed his hand into her hair and held her head as he came in for a kiss. She pushed against him, but he had her too close, and he knew she wouldn't get the leverage she needed. He pushed his tongue into her mouth—remembering the danger at just the last second. He retracted it as her teeth snapped together; she caught the edge his lower lip instead, and actually took a little piece. He flinched back and put a hand to his mouth.

It came back bloody. "Fuck! You little animal." Oh, but this was interesting. He had her stirred up. His cock swelled a little more. She hadn't bolted. She was standing there, her eyes glittering at him, the pulse in her throat throbbing visibly. Oh, yeah—she was pissed. That was more like it.

"That's right. You like it rough. I can _do_ rough, baby." A vivid image of Junie's broken body rose up in his head, and he took a step back with a gasp. His cock deflated. He saw Desi notice. Confusion furrowed her brow for less than a second, but she said nothing and showed no sign of derision.

He stepped past her and put his head in the scalding stream of the shower. Desi stood where she was for a moment longer, then grabbed a towel and left the bathroom.

When she left, he sat down on the floor and let the water hit him until it was cold.

-oOo-

She wasn't in the bedroom. He grabbed his jeans from the floor and pulled them on and went looking.

He found her in the living room, sitting on the white sofa in front of the windows. She was dressed in jeans and a black button shirt. Her hair was still damp, and she'd just combed it straight back. Without any makeup at all, she looked younger, softer. He hadn't noticed that last night.

He walked up to the sofa and stood looking down at her. Sighing, she turned up her head and considered him. "You need to talk, or you need to go. You don't have another option."

Not breaking eye contact, he sat down next to her. "Yeah. We should talk. Yeah. But not about the club. Club doesn't concern you." He turned and brought his knee up on the seat; it touched her leg, and she looked down at it.

Meeting his eyes again, she crossed her arms under her breasts. The move increased her cleavage delightfully, and his cock twitched. "It does when you blame me. That's what last night was, right? Blaming me for something to do with the club? You came in here looking to hurt me. That concerns me."

"I told you, I'm sorry about that. It's not your fault. It's just—." He stopped.

"Just what? Tig, I meant it. Talk or go." She started to get up, but he put his hand around her arm and held her there.

"Wait. I'm trying." Jesus. He didn't know how to say it. He didn't know where they were headed here. New territory, maybe. "I told you last night. I think about you. Too much. It's been getting in my way. You don't need to know details. I just got a little nuts is all, and I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to scare you. I think—I think—." He realized what he was about to say after he started the sentence. Stunned, he stopped and pulled it back to think more—to think at all—on it.

"You think what?"

He shook his head. He couldn't say it. He was beginning to understand that he wanted it, but he couldn't say it.

She sighed again. "Okay. This, whatever it is"—she waved her hand dismissively between them—"isn't going to work. Too messy. You confuse me. I don't know shit about you. I don't even know your name. And you're sitting here asking me to trust you, after you came up here like you did last night. No. You need to go."

"Alex."

She looked at him like he was nuts. "What?"

"My name. Alex Trager. I'd appreciate it if you'd stick with Tig, though. I don't want to go, Desi. I don't know why. I'm confused, too. I don't do this—whatever it is. But I like being with you. I think—," again, he stopped, tripping over the utterance of this thought. This time, though, he forced it out. "I think I want to _be_ with you."

She breathed out a laugh. "Why? Because of a couple good fucks? That's all you know about me."

He smiled and brushed a finger along the ink on her face. He loved that tat. It was so delicate and pretty and so badass all at once. "More than a couple. More than good. There's something here, Desi. I know you feel it. You wouldn't be so pissed if you didn't."

"I'm not pissed. I'm annoyed."

He reached out again, this time brushing his finger along the throbbing vein in her neck. "You're pissed. You have a tell, doll. This vein really cooks when you get hot—when you're angry, or when you're horny." He grinned and leaned in close. "See? I do know something about you." He brushed his lips over her mouth. "If you're not angry, then you're horny. I can work with that, too."

She pushed him away, but he caught the ghost of a smile in the corners of her mouth. "What do you want, Tig?"

He wasn't sure, and he wasn't sure it mattered. There was a sword hanging over his head in Charming. If he lost his patch on Friday, he'd be far out of California by Saturday morning. He might even be off this mortal plane entirely.

With Desi, he had a chance to have a couple of good days and keep his mind off all that. "Just a chance. I'm taking a couple of days away from SAMCRO. Can I stay with you until Friday? Two days—all I ask. There's either something here or there's not. We can figure it out, get to know each other. If on Friday you don't want to see me ever again, then you won't."

"Two days? Staying here, in my bed? I have to work—I have the club."

He grinned—she hadn't said no. "I can go to the club with you, or just wait for you here. Whatever you want, doll."

She shook her head, and he felt a plunge of disappointment. "Okay. This is not in the plan, but okay." Disappointment made a U-turn and became satisfaction. "Behave yourself—no stirring up shit in the club. Right?"

"Right. Scout's honor."

She laughed—and it was the full, husky laugh he loved. "I don't believe you were ever a Boy Scout."

"I was! I mean, they threw me out, but I was for a couple of weeks." He pulled her into his lap and kissed her. "I want to go back to bed. When do you have to be a businesswoman?"

"I have a lunch meeting, so I have a couple of hours. But I thought we were going to get to know each other." She ran her fingers through the hair on his chest. He closed his eyes at the soft pull, and his cock filled completely out.

"We are. First thing I need to know is how hard you come when you're wearing vibrating nipple clamps while I fuck you." If she thought he'd forgotten that those were on his approved list, she was mistaken. He'd been fantasizing about using them on her for months.

With a beautiful, fully lopsided grin, she said, "Hard. I'll come very hard."

He licked his lips "Well, hot damn. Let's get to it." He scooped her up.

On the way to her bedroom, he asked, "Hey—is Desi your real name?"

She cocked her head—okay, maybe it was a weird time to ask. "It's Desirée. Desirée Thibault."

Surprised, he stopped and looked down at her in his arms. "You from Louisiana? That's a Cajun name."

The furrow in her brow was deep. "How the hell do you know that?"

"I know things. Desirée—means desired." He laughed.

"Yeah—you know that, too. You think it's funny?"

"No, baby. I think it fits."

-oOo-

She squirmed a little when he got to the bed, and he set her down. She walked immediately over to her chest and opened it, selecting the nipple clamps in question and bringing them over. She held her hand out, offering them to him. His cock throbbing with the beat of his heart, he took them from her.

Standing in front of him, her eyes never leaving his, she undressed. When she was bare, she went to the side of the bed, still unmade from their sleep, and their sex, of the night before. She folded the covers back and got in, lying on her back, her arms crossed over her head, her hands grasping her elbows. The pose brought her breasts up firmly, and Tig groaned. It was almost a submissive pose—he suspected it was as close as she could get, anyway.

He set the clamps next to her on the bed while he rid himself of his jeans, then straddled her, keeping his weight on his heels. His cock seemed to sense the heat of her pussy just below it and strained to get closer. But Tig had bigger plans.

He leaned down and laved first one nipple, then the other, swirling his tongue and drawing each into his mouth until it was a hard bud and Desi was squirming silently, taking long, deep breaths, her eyes closed. He saw the imprint of her fingers on the skin around her elbows; she was not relaxed.

She was giving him something beyond her comfort zone, and he saw that. That recognition had a powerful effect on him, but he didn't understand what it was. It did something to his head.

He tried to ease her with touch, running his hands over her torso with the pressure he was learning she liked, but she only arched and gripped her elbows harder. So he picked up the clamps. He made the tension loose at first; once he'd attached them, he moved to tighten them. He stopped; remembering something.

"Desi, what's your safe word? You never told me."

She opened her eyes and regarded him for a few seconds, her arms still crossed over her head. "Tulsa." She closed her eyes again.

"Tulsa. Okay." He tightened one clamp, then the other, moving back and forth, keeping them even. When the clamps looked tight enough, he leaned down and flicked his tongue over the distended tip of a nipple. She jerked and cried out. Her breaths were coming in heavy gasps now, every exhale a little moan. He was like to burst with need.

She was shaking; he wasn't sure whether it was fear or desire, but she hadn't used her word. "Is it good, baby?" She nodded, her eyes still closed.

He turned on the remote, setting it to the first level. Desi gasped and sighed. He turned it up again, and her back arched. One more. She cried out, "God, yes." He set it on the highest level. She was panting and writhing underneath him, her torso undulating. He set the remote at her hip and cupped his hands around her breasts. He could feel the clamps vibrating robustly. He ever-so-lightly brushed his thumbs over the tips of her nipples. The breath she took was like an inward scream, and she yelled, "Fuck, Tig!"

He couldn't hold off. He grabbed a condom off the nightstand and rolled it on as fast as he could. He shifted position so that his legs were between hers and he folded hers up so that her knees were on either side of her chest, and her dripping, glistening, lovely pink pussy was wide open to him. His hands on her shins, keeping her legs tight and spread wide, he pushed into her fast and hard, going as deep as he could. Desi gasped, "Oh fuck, yeah!"

He rested deep inside her for just a second, then slid slowly back until he was almost out. He paused there, and she whimpered. "Desi, look at me." She turned her head to the side, refusing. He flexed a little, like a pulse of his hips, but stayed near her opening.

"Look at me, baby. I want to see your eyes when you come." Her head still turned to the side, she shook her head. She wouldn't look at him. Sweat was running down the side of his face, and through the hair on his chest. He didn't know how much more control he had over himself, much less over her.

"Please, baby. Let me see you. Please." That did it. She turned to him and opened her eyes. "That's it. That's what I like." He plunged into to her, making every driving push a little deeper than the one before it. She held his gaze now, the browns, golds, and greens seeming to swirl in her irises.

And then she was coming. Her walls clamped around his cock, holding him in a vise so tight that every thrust felt as if she were wringing him out. With a wail, she pushed her legs free from the pressure of his hands and released her arms, too, wrapping around him, legs around his hips, arms around his neck. She pulled herself up off the bed, pressing herself to his torso. He sat back and clutched her close, feeling the clamps vibrating against his own chest. Her hips bucking wildly, with great strength, she went over, screaming his name.

It was the best thing he'd ever heard in his whole fucking life.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 12:  
**"Fall in Love with Me," Iggy Pop

When Desi got back from her meeting, Tig was working on the bathroom door. He had it off its hinges and had the latch side of the jamb off. Wearing nothing but his jeans and his jewelry, squatting in the doorway, he presented quite the picture. She leaned in the bedroom doorway and appreciated it.

He gave her a smile when he saw her. "Sorry, doll. I broke the jamb out. To fix it, I need shit I won't be able to bring back on the bike."

"Not a problem. Tell me what you need, and I'll have it delivered tomorrow. Just make me a list. You want to go get some lunch?"

He stood and walked over to her, brushing his hands. "Didn't you just come from a lunch thing?"

"I don't eat at lunch meetings." She picked up the chain around his neck and played it idly through her fingers.

"Why have 'em then?"

"Not my meeting. The mayor likes them. He puts on a big fancy spread—at taxpayers' expense, of course—and makes a production."

"Why don't you eat, then, if it's so nice?" His hand was on her ass, pushing her up against him. He leaned down and sucked lightly on her neck. Her hand clenched on the chain linked around her fingers.

She tipped her head to the side to make way for his mouth on her throat. "It's all a power play. He feeds people, making them his guests instead of his colleagues. Everybody's distracted by the niceties of etiquette—don't talk with your mouth full, which fork to use, where to put your elbows—instead of the topic of the meeting. Servers are moving around, drawing attention. And everybody's eating instead of talking, so he sits there with his knife and fork in his hands, never touching his plate, holding forth uninterrupted for an hour. Unless I'm there. I don't eat, either, so he doesn't get anything past me. Plus, there's power in refusing his food." She grinned. "It drives him nuts that I won't eat. He knows I know what he's doing. And I usually get what I want. Most of the other assholes think I'm doing that girl thing and not eating in front of men."

About halfway through her explanation, Tig had lifted his head up and now was staring at her. When she stopped, he tapped the fingers of one hand on her forehead. "Jesus, Desi. Does that head ever stop?"

Feeling condescended to, she shook his fingers off. "I didn't make the life I have by just letting things happen to me." She pushed him back a step. "You want to eat?"

"Yeah. Sounds good."

"Good. Give me a sec to change. And you should probably put a shirt on. Not that I don't enjoy the view." With a wink, she stepped out of her stiletto pumps and unzipped her skirt on her way to her closet.

-oOo-

They sat in a dark booth at the pub she'd intended to take him to back in the fall, beers in front of them, lunch ordered. The backs of the booth benches were tall—about two feet higher than Tig's head as he sat across from her—so the feeling was private. She loved this place. It was old and dark, and smelled richly of beer-soaked wood. Even though it had been illegal to smoke in any public place in California for twenty years or more, there was still the faint aroma of cigarette and cigar smoke lurking in the air. The food was plain but good, and people left each other the hell alone. Lots of state government deals had been worked out in the shelter of these tall, dark booths.

Tig leaned forward with a grin. She liked that grin. It looked like trouble, but the fun kind. She was starting to understand that everything about Tig was trouble of one kind or another. He was the very definition of a loose cannon. That was his appeal to her, ironically. This feral man had barreled into her neatly ordered and carefully controlled life, and he'd kicked everything, her brain included, into high gear. She couldn't anticipate him. The best she'd been able to do is get about a half-step up on him. It was frustrating, but exciting. Foolhardy—dangerous—but exciting.

"So, doll. Let's get to know each other. What's your story?"

She shook her head with a grin. "You first."

He chuckled. "Damn, baby. You ever gonna let me on top?"

"You've been on top. Hell, you've been on top _today_."

He gave her a little cocked nod and a smirk. "Yeah, I guess I have." He nodded at her chest. "How they feelin'?"

Her nipples were sore, but the good kind of sore, the kind that reminded her how they got that way, the unbelievable intensity of the orgasm she'd had. She shifted on the bench. "They're good. Don't change the subject."

He wrinkled his nose playfully. "Okay. My story's not that interesting, though. My dad split when my mom got pregnant, so I never knew him. Mom's people threw her out because she was knocked up. So I wasn't ever her favorite person, but she did okay, I guess, considering. Fed me. Gave me a bed. Knocked me around some when I was little, but nothing crazy. Couple of shithead boyfriends. When high school was over, she was done with me, so I joined up with the Marines—"

Shocked, Desi cut him off. "Hold up. You were a jarhead?"

"Yeah. That a problem?"

"No. I'm just—surprised. Wouldn't have pegged you for the spit-and-polish type."

With another smirk, he said, "Didn't say I was good at it. Said I joined up. Anyway, after Uncle Sam and I parted ways, I drifted some. Bought myself an old Sportster and thought I'd be Kerouac or Easy Rider or something. Then I met Clay and JT, and eventually I patched in with the Sons." His gaze slid to the side, and his mien changed dramatically. He got quiet, and she could feel that he'd closed himself off. Desi suspected that whatever was going on with the club that had driven him to her apartment in such a state on Tuesday night, he'd just bumped up against it.

She let him be quiet and thought about what he'd told her. He was right; his story was sadly not so unusual in the kinds of crowds they ran in. But he knew Kerouac. That surprised her almost more than the Marines. If he _really_ knew Kerouac, and not just the name, it spoke to a depth his bombast hid well. She thought maybe she'd seen glimpses of that depth. She found it interesting.

Their food came, and he roused, even flirting a little with the server, which amused Desi. He was dangerously charming when he wanted to be. When they were alone again, their beers refreshed, he said, "So that's my story. Not that interesting. Now, you go."

She took a bite from her burger and chewed it slowly. Yes, she was delaying a little. Not to avoid telling him, but just to get it straight in her head. She didn't tell her story often.

"Desi?" Tig leaned in a little more, his look expectant, bordering on demanding.

She set her burger down and took a long pull from her beer. "I grew up in the system, as they say. I was a dumpster baby. They found me in the trash in an alley behind a restaurant in Baton Rouge. Umbilical cord still attached. It was a local news story—I have clippings. I'll show you sometime, if you want. Anyway, that's where my name comes from. Thibault is the name of the trash company that owned the dumpster—name painted on it in big letters. The newspaper named me Desirée—kind of ironic, huh?"

"Jesus, baby." It was a whisper. She didn't like the look on his face. His eyes were too wide. The big reason she kept this story to herself was that people wanted to jump right on in with the amateur psychoanalysis. She knew why she needed her life the way it was. She didn't appreciate people thinking they knew why she was the way she was after she'd spent five minutes telling them a single facet of her life—one which had played itself out to its end almost 30 years ago, when she'd aged out of the system.

She shook her head. "There's no drama there; don't go looking. Bad shit happens to everybody. Would have been worse if I'd had something better and then lost it. I just never had it. Anyway, the longest I ever stayed in one home was about three years. Usually it was a lot less than that. Some of the people were nice, some weren't. I got good at figuring out who was not going to be nice, and I'd split before they could hurt me. Spent more time on the streets for a few years than I did in foster care, but I always ended up getting scooped up. Or it would get cold, or food would be scarce, and I'd go looking to go back in. Did a little time in juvie, nothing big. But I became unplaceable—again, as they say. Around 11th grade I ended up in a group home—an orphanage, really, but I guess they don't use that word anymore. That was shitty in a lot of ways, but I went to school every day and managed to graduate. I probably wouldn't have if I'd been cycling through people's houses, changing schools every few months."

He was engrossed; his brow furrowed. "You went to college though, right? I mean, how did you get from there to where you are now?"

"That's a long story. No, I didn't go to college. Haven't been in a classroom since high school. The short version of the rest of it: I worked hard. I'm smart. I saw opportunities and took them. I don't let bullshit stop me. And I don't let people tell me what I can or cannot do." She took two long swallows of beer, finishing the bottle, and slammed it to the table. "And that's all you're getting today."

"It's a helluva story, Desi."

She shrugged. "It's a story. Everybody's got one."

He took her hands in his—another romantic gesture that unsettled her. "No, doll. You're amazing. Everything you have? You started out _trash_. And you had lunch with the mayor today. You see how amazing that is, right?"

She didn't need him or anybody to tell her how much she'd accomplished. She didn't need admiration. She needed people not to get in her way. "You ask me if my head ever stops. No. It doesn't. Even in my dreams I work shit out. That's why I have what I have. Nobody gave it to me, and nobody would have cut me a break if I'd fucked up. So I don't fuck up."

With a shake of his head, he sat back, still holding her hands. "I fuck up all the time."

"I'm getting that. You're wild. I used to be. For a few years after high school I was a little rage bomb. Got myself into some bad situations. Then I wised up. I use my head." She turned his hand over so that his palm was up, and she traced circles on it with her thumb. He twitched at first and then relaxed into the touch. "And now here you are, chaos at my door. I don't know what we're doing here, but you unsettle me. I don't know what you want. I don't know what I want. I don't like that."

"Well, we're even then, because I got no idea what it is you're doing to me." His grin was rakish. "I do like it, though—now, when I'm with you. I guess chaos doesn't bother me much."

She laughed. Yeah, he was all kinds of trouble. "Clearly."

"Hey—got another question for you. If you grew up Cajun, how come you don't have an accent?"

"I ditched that shit as soon as I left the state."

"Can you still do it?"

The look on his face was . . . rapacious. His eyes sparkled devilishly. She grinned. Of course he'd have an accent thing. He had just about every kind of thing. "Aw, cher, you don' _ne_'er forge' how'a talk da' talk."

His mouth was open; he swallowed without bothering to close it, and his throat clicked. "Holy shit. I want to hear you talk dirty like that."

She bet he did. "I'll wait until you're not expecting it. Be better that way."

"Oh, baby. I think I'm in love."

He'd said the words "I love you" the first night they'd fucked, so she knew he threw the phrase out meaninglessly. She did not, and she didn't like that he did. It muddied things up. "One day you're going to say that and mean it, and whoever it is you say it to will have no idea."

A shadow crossed his face and was gone almost before she'd seen it. She started to try to figure out what that ghost of a look had been, but then he was leaning over the table, his hands on her cheeks, kissing her. "Let's get out of here."

She nodded. When the check came, she let him pay.

-oOo-

Desi went up the elevator about 2am Friday morning, after the club was closed. Tig was waiting for her in her apartment, she assumed. He'd tried to hang out with her at the club on Wednesday night, but the playroom made him too horny and uncomfortable, and he didn't like the music or the crowd on the main floor. He didn't get along with Raven—or with Toad, for that matter—so after a couple of hours, he'd just gone up, bitching about her lack of a television. On Thursday night, he'd stayed upstairs. His mood had gotten dark by then, too. Dark enough that she wasn't sure what to expect when the elevator arrived in her apartment.

The past couple of days had only made Desi more confused. Wednesday, after that rough start in the morning, had been a delight. Tig was lighthearted. They'd talked and bantered and had several sessions of amazing sex. Thursday had started out similarly enjoyable. She only had a meeting scheduled to check on the renovations, and otherwise was free until the club opened. He'd fixed her bathroom door while she was handling that, and they'd spent most of the afternoon in bed, talking and fucking.

She noticed signs in herself that she was getting invested. It caused her some alarm, but she let it happen, keeping a corner of her head watchful so that she could adjust to the situation as it progressed.

Part of her caution came from simple logic. Say they would want to get serious with each other. She could not imagine—and Desi was good at imagining; that was what she did—what that would even be. It's not like she was going to move to Charming—ever. Her life and her work were here, and she couldn't comport it productively from there. It's not like she was going to be his "old lady" and let him tattoo his name on her. She was not a pair of underwear to be labeled lest it get lost at camp. And she couldn't imagine him being exclusive any more than she could imagine herself being exclusive. From that unstable concoction a relationship would not likely spring forth.

So, then, what the hell were they doing? She had no idea. But she was enjoying this time, and she enjoyed his touch. He interested her. He affected her in ways she was not often affected. So, watchfully, she let it progress.

That watchfulness kicked into gear late Thursday afternoon, when his mood began to change markedly. He was distracted and broody. He was ill-tempered about her leaving to go down to the club. By the time she left to do so, he was positively sullen, and she'd about decided that their little experiment had been a failure after all, and she would be relieved to see him go in the morning.

But that was the morning. Now, as the elevator settled on her floor, she prepared herself for any possible Tig, from playful sex fiend to rage-fueled menace. The doors opened, and he was standing right there, waiting for her.

"Hey, doll." He caught her hand and pulled her close. His head tucked into the crook of her shoulder, he just held her. She put her hands on his hips and let him. She hadn't figured out a way to prepare herself for Tig the lover, Tig the romantic. This Tig made her feel off-center. She didn't know where he was coming from or what he meant to accomplish. And she didn't like how much she liked it.

When he pulled back, he looked down at her; she couldn't read his expression. The best she could come up with was . . . longing? No, that made no sense. _Jesus_, she hated not knowing. "You okay, love?"

He traced the ink on her face. That gesture had become a habit for him. "I want you to ride with me. Don't say no, Des."

It was the first time during this sojourn that he'd asked. She might have expected it earlier, but it caught her off guard now. "What—now? It's late."

His arms tensed, squeezing her closer. "Don't care. Come on, baby. Please. I'm saying please."

"Where?"

"Say yes without knowing. Just ride with me."

"Jesus, Tig—"

He cut her off. "Desi, I get it. I'm asking you to trust me. I'll take care of you."

They'd talked enough these two days that she thought he _did_ get it. She either believed he would take care of her or she didn't. She was either willing to _let_ him take care of her or she wasn't. Wherever she fell on those questions, she knew it meant the difference between the success or failure of their experiment here. So the real question was: did she want something more with him, despite the mess, complication, and uncertainty, or was she ready to send him back to Charming and get on with the life she'd built for herself?

"Let me get my jacket."


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 13:  
**"I Am the Highway," Audioslave

He had her on his bike, and he just rode. He'd given her his helmet, and she was wrapped around him, wearing leather pants and fucking sexy boots, her arms linked across his chest. He didn't have a destination in mind at all at first; he just wanted to ride with her.

Part of him wanted to ride as far as they could—out to the coast and then south to LA, or farther, maybe all the way into Mexico. The road rolling under them, wind in their hair. Never look back.

He wasn't ready to go back to Charming. He wasn't ready to face what he had to face there. He wasn't ready to let Desi go, and this might be the end for them.

She laid her head on his back. He felt trust in the gesture, and his blood sang. He rode.

He knew he couldn't keep her away forever, that he couldn't really run. Eventually he realized that he was heading toward a place they could stop and be quiet for awhile. He took the next off-ramp and headed up Highway 12 to Napa. It was the heavy dark of the early hours of the morning, and they were virtually alone on the road.

As they sped past acres and acres of vineyards, she sat up and looked around, and he could feel a kind of tension in her body. It wasn't anxiety he thought he felt in her; he thought she was just curious. He turned onto a side road and followed its winding path up. Finally, he pulled off and parked the bike.

She dismounted and handed him the helmet. He'd been surprised to know that it wasn't her first time on a bike. The way she'd refused him, and her hesitation earlier in the night, had led him to expect that she'd never ridden before. When he'd tried to explain how to ride bitch, she'd smiled and said she knew. And she did.

He was horny; he was always at least a little horny when he rode, and feeling her against him, trusting him, turned his cock to steel. He'd like to fuck her on this bluff. He pulled her close and kissed her. She came willingly and kissed him back, pressing herself against his crotch. Then she pulled back and smiled up at him.

"I don't know what I expected, but I didn't expect you to bring me to Napa. Why here?"

He shrugged. There had been no specific intent. "Just a spot I know. It's quiet here—and pretty. He pointed west, over a sea of twinkling lights to a dark void in the distance. "You can see the Pacific from here. And the Bay farther south." He pointed to the east. "And the sun'll come up over the Sierras in a couple of hours, way off that way."

She hadn't turned to see where he'd been pointing. Instead, she was looking steadily at him. He met her gaze now. "You're missing the view, doll."

Her eyes didn't move from his. "You surprise me. You confuse me."

Smiling, he traced the vine on her face, then leaned in to kiss it. His lips on her temple, he whispered, "I know. And you don't like it. You told me."

She tipped her head against his and turned in to his kiss. "I don't like being confused, no. Or surprised. But I do like you."

"Ah, baby." It was all he could say. He was confused, too. What he felt for her eluded his understanding. But now, this early morning, after the days they'd spent together, he understood that she was in more than his head.

He was a man of obsessions. His imagination caught on ideas, and he couldn't rest until he played them out. He cycled through them quickly, though, mainly because he had few inhibitions, little to stop him from satisfying his curiosities. He'd thought Desi was merely his latest obsession, a particularly exciting one. But being with her had only made his need greater. He'd blamed her for his trouble with the Sons, and he'd come to her in such a rage, because he couldn't understand why their play hadn't been enough.

He still didn't understand. Nothing about this was familiar. He'd been married; he hadn't felt like this for Colleen, not even when things were good. He'd had an old lady after that; he'd liked her enough to mark her, and he'd been sad when she died, but he hadn't felt like this. Nothing like this.

This _was_ obsession. But it . . . it _hurt_. It hurt his chest. Desi made him feel different in his own skin. He'd thought he wanted to fuck her up here, and he was ragingly horny. But he didn't. What he really wanted was to sit on the ground and lean up on that big rock over there, with her between his legs, and watch the sun come up.

What the hell?

And the best sex he'd ever had _in his life_ had not been the amazing bondage ménage with Desi and Samantha, or the fantastic sex swing, or any of the weird and freaky shit he'd done with anyone other than Desi in the 40 years he'd been fucking. It had been the almost entirely normal sex they'd had Tuesday night, when he'd come to her intending to do her harm. Something had happened to him that night in her bed.

And then he thought he knew.

Was this love?

He laughed a little, until the lump in his throat caught it. The Sons were voting his patch later in the day. Maybe more than his patch. He had no idea what his future looked like, or if he even had one. But he knew that the odds were slim that he'd be in a position to have a chance to figure out what he and Desi were, or could be. Or what she wanted.

He'd put the club at risk. More than once. He knew how he'd vote if it were almost anyone else in his place. He didn't think he'd be a Son by sunset tonight. And then he'd just be gone.

He'd been quiet a while, and Desi took hold of his kutte and gave it a tug. "Hey. You okay?"

He shook all that off and smiled down at her. They had only a few hours left. "Yeah, doll. I'm great. Here—sit with me." He sat down against the rock and pulled her with him. She gave him a curious look. He grinned and asked, "What?"

"It's just not what I thought we'd be doing tonight."

"Is that bad?"

She put her hands around his face, and he closed his eyes and savored the touch. "No. Not bad," she whispered, and then she kissed him.

As she deepened the kiss, she shifted to straddle his hips, kneeling around him. She held his face tight her hands, her fingers curling into his hair. She pulled back slightly and sucked his lower lip into her mouth, nibbling it gently. His cock was swollen and straining against his fly; he could feel her pussy resting on it, her wet heat radiating through leather and denim. He did want to fuck her on this bluff.

He slid his hands under her jacket and under the snug leather of her top, seeking the end of the lacing so that he could get to her tits. She was grinding on him now and moaning softly into his mouth; breaking away so that he could get a breath, he groaned, "Fuck, Desi."

"Yeah. Fuck me. I want you to fuck me." She grabbed at his belt and jeans.

He reached down and stopped her, taking her hands in his, and she paused, her expression bemused. He chuckled. "You're gonna have to get your pants off, doll, or I won't be able to get where I need to get."

Smiling, she stood, still straddling him. He looked up at her towering over him, all in leather; a shiver of pleasure raced up his spine at the sight. She pulled one boot off and kicked one leg out of her pants. Meanwhile, he made himself ready, releasing his cock, with relief, from the confines of his jeans and rolling on a condom. She settled slowly down on him, impaling herself by degrees.

He took in a long breath and tipped his head back at the pleasure of her heat encompassing him. "Baby, you feel so good." She started moving fast, grinding him deep into her, but he took hold of her hips and slowed her down. "Easy, easy," he whispered. "There's nobody here but us. Let's go slow." He didn't want to rush this. It could be the last time.

She smiled and slowed down, rocking and rising on him in a silky rhythm. He used the time to open her top and expose her beautiful tits to his hands and mouth. She threaded her hands into his hair and held his head close.

Soon enough, they were both moaning and straining with need, and Desi picked up the pace again, flexing on him, her walls squeezing him, pulling ecstasy from him. He lifted his head from her chest and cradled her face in his hands, holding her steady so she would meet his eyes. He felt the need to say something, to mark the night, to tell her what he felt, but he had no words. Instead, he simply said her name. "Desi."

She came first, quietly, staring at him as the pleasure overtook her. Watching her eyes shift and lose focus when her orgasm crested was indescribably erotic. It made Tig ache.

When she was done, she rested her head on his shoulder and flexed her hips energetically, focusing on him and bringing him to his release. He felt the change in her as her pleasure started to rise again, but his was on him, demanding, and he couldn't hold off to let her go a second time. When he came, he pulled her close and tucked his head against her neck, his teeth gentle on her skin, wanting to be touching all of her.

They sat still like that for a long time, their heads on each other's shoulder, their arms wrapped snugly around each other. Finally, Desi sat back with a little lopsided smile. She kissed him, and then she stood to put her clothes back together.

When she was dressed, Tig pulled her back down with him. He nested her between his legs, his arms around her, her head resting on his chest, and they watched the sun come up over the mountains in the distance.

Yeah, this was love. He loved her. He was in love with her.

-oOo-

When he got her back to her building, he didn't come up. He could tell that it threw her—he thought maybe it even hurt her—but he couldn't get back into her bed. Not this day, not with what he had to face. He kissed her hard, holding her close, wondering if he'd see her again. And then he left her on the sidewalk and headed back to Charming.

-oOo-

Late that afternoon, he sat at the bar in the clubhouse. He wasn't drinking. He was waiting. Church was in session. Pepboy was behind the bar, eying him nervously. Pep was about due for his patch-in vote. Well, maybe a chair was about to open up.

The doors opened, and Tig turned around, his heart in his stomach. He couldn't read the faces of his brothers, but Chibs walked up to him and embraced him. He said, "You're safe, brutha. You're in," and kissed Tig on the cheek.

Tig's legs buckled, and he sat down hard on the stool. Jesus, he'd kept his patch. _He'd kept his patch_. Now, Phil, Bobby, V-Lin, and Joey all patted him on the back. Jax met his eyes and nodded—one tip of his head. Juice left the clubhouse. Hap pushed Pep aside, poured himself a drink, and went to sit alone, across the room.

Tig turned to Chibs, who'd taken the seat next to him. "How'd the vote split out?"

Chibs shook his head. "Don' matter. Ye made it through. Time to get clear o' it now."

Tig knew Chibs was right. He knew it. But he had it in his teeth now. He turned and looked at Hap—his best friend. Or was. "How'd he vote?"

Again, Chibs shook his head. He put a restraining hand on Tig's arm. "Tiggy, let it go, brutha. Let it go. Get clear."

Tig brushed him off and got off the stool. "Enough of this shit."

He heard Chibs mutter, "Shite." He walked over and stood in front of Happy.

"How'd you vote, Hap?"

Hap ignored him, staring down into his glass.

"How'd you vote, man?"

Hap looked up at him now, but said nothing.

"Too much of a pussy to say it to my face, _brother_?"

Hap set his glass on the table next to him. He stood up; he and Tig were face to face, less than a foot apart. With a quick, compact movement, Hap shoved a right jab straight into Tig's solar plexus. Tig doubled over with a strained gasp.

Hap yanked Tig upright and grabbed his kutte in both fists. He walked—almost carried—him against the wall.

He leaned in close. "You go off half-cocked, and we eat the bullet. I voted to kick your sorry ass. I was looking to vote Mayhem, too. _Brother_." With a sneer, he released his hold on Tig's kutte and turned away.

"You treacherous son of a bitch." He knew it was the exact thing Hap wouldn't be able to walk away from. And he didn't. Without a word, Hap spun on his heel and charged, catching Tig in the ribs and bringing them both crashing over a recliner.

Tig was vaguely aware that Sons were pulling furniture out of their way as quickly as possible, but most of his attention was on Hap's fists. That charge had flattened Tig; he'd come over the chair awkwardly and caught his right shoulder. Now he was on the ground, Hap straddling him, fists flying, and he couldn't get a good swing in because of his shoulder.

He managed to get out from under Hap and back to his feet. He could barely see for the blood dripping in his eyes. He swung a roundhouse with his left and caught Hap on the jaw, opening a gash. Hap saw that his shoulder was hurt, though, and exploited it, coming in with a jab right in the meat above his pec. Pain exploded in his chest, over his shoulder, and up his neck. _Fuck_. He dropped to his knees. Hap came on.

He grabbed Tig by the kutte and yanked him back to his feet, pushing him against the wall. When he cocked his right fist back again, Tig yelled, "Enough, man. I'm sorry. Jesus fucking Christ, I'm sorry!"

He wasn't sure what he was apologizing for. No; he was apologizing for everything. For Hope's blanket. For Junie.

For Opie. For Lilli. For Donna.

For Dawn.

Hap paused, his fist cocked and dripping with Tig's blood, and stared, rage still contorting his face. Then his look eased, and Tig said again, more quietly, "Hap, man. I'm sorry."

Hap dropped his fist and let go of Tig's kutte. He walked away. Tig sank to the floor.

-oOo-

Chibs got him cleaned up and forced his shoulder back into place. He was a mess, but he thought he could ride. It was Friday night. He tried to hang and enjoy the party. He knew should stay, he knew he still had repairs to make with his brothers, but he didn't want to. Everything was off there. Seeing the Crow Eaters made him feel ill.

He got on his bike and headed to Sacramento. To Desi.

-oOo-

He hadn't thought about anything but getting back to Desi, and it wasn't until he was in the city that he realized she would be working. Shit.

He didn't like her club. It was loud and teeming, and the crowd was young. The music mostly sucked. The guys who worked there, Toad especially, gave off a territorial vibe with him, and he found his hands curling into fists when he was around them. There was too much to pay attention to, to much to be wary of, and his senses were assaulted.

And the room in the back. He should love that, but he didn't. The second time he'd been in there, Desi hadn't forbidden him from getting involved with what was going on, but he hadn't wanted to. He didn't like the molly—no, that was wrong. He'd liked it a lot, but he didn't trust himself on it. He'd ended up in goddamn cuffs, and that was not going to happen again. Plus, he didn't like the comedown at all. He didn't trust himself then, either, but for different reasons.

Being straight while everyone else was on drugs put him off. What he'd done when he was in there, then, is watch. Which was nice, but disorienting.

Not everyone had sex back there. Some people came in and just mellowed out. One couple had sat side by side on a sofa and simply caressed the velvet upholstery for a couple of hours, serene, nearly identical smiles on their faces. Desi gave them water and took care of them like she did everyone else.

Watching Desi play, the way she danced on the edges of what people were doing, elevating their experience without being drawn in too deep herself, enthralled him. He'd loved the third-party view he had—like his own personal porno. It was so hot to see her with other people, to see the way her body moved in and around the tangles of drug-enhanced sex. She stayed dressed; her hair didn't even get mussed. He understood what she was doing, he thought, but he didn't understand what she got out of it. He'd never asked. He should.

So he'd sat and watched her, drowning in an ocean of desire, insensible with the need of her. But she wouldn't. In that room, up to her knees in naked people fucking, she wouldn't touch him in any way but chastely. She'd encouraged him to see if he'd be welcome in the tangles, warning him to be gentle. But he didn't want that. He wanted her. And her encouragement made him feel uncomfortable, for some reason.

The whole thing was disorienting. He'd only been able to stand it for about half the night.

So now, as he pulled up to the club entrance, his face aching, his shoulder screaming at him from the ride, his mood was ambivalent. He wanted Desi, but he didn't want the gauntlet he'd have to go through to get to her. He wished he could just go up to her apartment and wait. He took his phone out and dialed her number, but it went to voice mail. He didn't bother with a message.

And fuck, that Raven asshole was working the door.

Raven stood as Tig descended the stairs, blocking the door. He had an inch or so on Tig, and maybe 30 pounds. He was a big fucker, but Tig wasn't small, and he fought dirty. Plus, he'd had a weird-ass day and he wasn't in the mood.

"I'm here for Desi, man. I'm goin' in. Step aside."

"Naw, dude. You're not. Not without her say-so." Asshole knew full well he was with Desi. This was territorial pissing, and Tig wasn't having it.

"Get out of my way."

"Fuck you, dude. She don't know you're comin', you're not gettin' in."

Now Tig was starting to wonder if Desi had said something to Raven about keeping him away. The thought sent an angry spike up his neck. He pulled his knife out of its sheath and stuck it under Raven's chin. It was a long, sharp knife, with a vicious, serrated edge. He turned the blade so Raven could feel the teeth. "Yeah. I am. Step. Aside."

Hands up, Raven stepped aside. "Be my guest, asswipe." Tig re-sheathed the knife and went in.

He'd gone down the short hall and entered the main room, the driving beat of the music bludgeoning his head, when Raven tackled him full force from behind, driving him to the floor, slamming into several punkers on the way down.

He rolled immediately and was on his feet before Raven got to his. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating at first, so bad it forced his vision to a pinprick—and then it was just numb. He tried it; it still worked, albeit more slowly, as if he were using a remote control to move it. It worked, however, and he sent an uppercut into Raven's chin while he was still on his way up. Asshole was a good 20 years younger, but Tig had been fighting for those 20 fucking years. Hell, he'd been fighting Hap for most of them. The blow took Raven down, again into bystanders.

On the edges of his brain, Tig registered that they had become the center of a melee. Not his problem. He dove in for the long-haired fuck on the floor.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 14:  
**"Come As You Are," Nirvana

When Tig dropped her off and rode away, Desi had been completely floored. Dumbfounded. Badly, badly hurt. In no scenario she'd considered had he simply turned and left, but that's what he did. He'd said nothing. He'd kissed her, and then he'd . . . just . . . _left_.

That motherfucker. It was like he'd fucking planned it. Get inside, gain her trust, and then—

_Motherfucker_.

With the day free until the club opened, she'd gone up to bed, but for the first time in a long time, she hadn't been able to sleep. She'd finally gotten up, showered, made coffee, and just started her day. Tried to, anyway. What she'd ended up doing was sitting and staring out the window, replaying the past couple of days. The early morning hours of this day in particular.

He'd done this ridiculously romantic thing, taking her into the wine country and fucking her under the damn stars—then watching the fucking sun come up. It was laughable, really. Something out of a goddamn Harlequin romance novel. And she'd been totally swept up in it, sitting between his legs feeling—feeling fucking _safe_. Wondering if she might be _falling in love_ with the motherfucker. Deciding it wouldn't be so bad if she were.

Jesus Christ. Had she been lobotomized this week?

Alone in her apartment, no one to see, she let herself have her snit. Then she reined in her head and got it straight. Time to get back in control.

She called Samantha.

-oOo-

Desi collapsed on Samantha's back for a second before pulling gently out and releasing the restraints. She stood then and unfastened the dual strap-on, pulling it out of herself and dropping it in the plastic basket.

Panting, Samantha rolled over onto her back, kicking the pillow that had supported her hips to the floor. She looked at Desi. "You okay, baby?"

Desi sat down on the bed and ran her hand over Samantha's chest, swirling a finger around a pink nipple. "Yeah. Weird week. I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"You know you didn't. It was just different."

"Just needed to shake off the week." She leaned down and kissed Samantha. "I put a towel out for you in the bathroom. I'm going to get some work in. Give me a wave before you go; I'll be in the den."

"You bet." Samantha rolled off the bed and headed to the bathroom. Desi pulled on her kimono and went down the hall.

This arrangement was much more preferable.

-oOo-

Before the club opened, she told Toad and Raven that Tig wasn't welcome. She didn't expect to see him, but he'd shown up unexpectedly once before, and she was playing out every scenario. No more being caught off guard.

The night was uneventful, a normal crowd of mainly regulars, and no one in the playroom yet. That would change as the night aged, but it was early enough now that people weren't totally warmed up yet. Desi was out on the floor, working the room a little and checking for underagers, when everything went to hell.

She saw Raven barreling into the room and tackling somebody, both crashing into the crowd. She turned one way and saw Toad moving quickly toward the scene. She turned to the bar and saw Big Frank leaping over it, Slugger in his hand.

She had nothing; the walking stick she wielded like a shillelagh was in the playroom. Turning back to the scuffle, she caught a glimpse of _fucking Tig_ connecting with Raven's chin, sending him into the crowd again.

And then it was a fully engaged bar brawl.

When it was over, six patrons were hurt enough not to be able to leave on their own power, at least not right away. Raven and Tig were bloody messes—Tig looked especially bad, his face a misshapen lump, his right arm hanging useless. Raven looked like he had a chunk missing from his cheek. Toad had a cut over his eye where a bottle had connected. Big Frank was basically unscathed.

Desi was holding her top up with one hand; it had been all but ripped off as she struggled to regain control of her business.

The club itself was a shambles. Almost all of the high top tables were broken. The chain link around the DJ cage had been pulled loose. Luckily, the equipment was intact—not to mention Mike, who was small and had rightfully fled to safety early on. There was glass everywhere. There was blood everywhere. And someone had gotten behind the bar and smashed up a lot of the booze.

No cops, though. Punks didn't call the cops. _Thank_ _God_ it had been a regular crowd, and _thank_ _God_ it had still been early. If Desi had actually believed in God, she would have gotten down on her knees, right there in the blood and glass.

Before she spoke to anyone, she went to the office behind the bar and grabbed a t-shirt left over from one of the charity things they'd sponsored—some kind of "fun run" or something. She pulled off the remnants of her neoprene tank and yanked the t-shirt over her head. Then she grabbed the first aid kit and went back out to the floor.

Tig was struggling to his feet. He started to walk her way, but she put her hand up and gave him a look that she hoped said he'd be short a sack if he came fucking near her yet. She must have gotten the point across; he limped over to the bar and sat on a stool.

The patrons were her first priority. Big Frank was already helping them, with ice and napkins. Once she ascertained that there were no broken bones or any injuries requiring an ambulance, she and Big Frank got them fixed up and on their way.

Once the bar was empty of everyone but employees and Tig, Desi went back to the office. She came back and walked straight to Raven.

Handing him a check, she said. "That's your full pay for the period. Get the fuck out of my club. I ever see you again, and I will fucking _ruin_ you."

He stood, snatched the slip of paper out of her hands, wadded it up, and tossed it to the floor. Then he grabbed her by the hair, at the back of her head, and spat into her face, "Don't you threaten me, you freak slut."

Every man in the place was on his feet, coming for Raven. Desi, too furious to be anything but calm, simply drove her knee between his thighs, with all the power she could muster, her eyes never leaving his. He yowled and dropped to the floor. She kicked him in the face with her platform boot.

Picking up the wadded check and dropping it on the writhing pile that was Raven, she turned to Toad. "Get him wherever he needs to go. You and I are talking tomorrow. Noon." She turned toward Tig. On to the next problem.

Toad grabbed her arm. "Desi, I'm—"

She whirled and yanked her arm away. "Shut the fuck up. Tomorrow. Tonight, take out the goddamn trash." She turned back to Tig. "You. Come with me." He stood and followed her. As she passed Big Frank, she asked, "Lock up for me?"

Big Frank caught her hand to stop her. "Sure thing. But come here." He gave her a hug. She endured it. "You okay?" he asked.

"Dandy. I'll see you at noon tomorrow, too, okay? Figure this shit out?"

"I'm here, Des." He kissed her cheek.

She turned and gestured to Tig to follow.

-oOo-

As soon as the elevator doors closed, and for the first time that night, Tig tried to talk to her. He pulled gently on the huge, lime green t-shirt she was wearing. "Are you hurt?"

"No. Shut up and let me think." He was quiet. But she wasn't thinking. Her brain was nothing but noise.

She grabbed his arm and led him to the kitchen. There, without a word, she sat him down and cleaned him up. Damn, he was a mess. Once she got the blood cleaned up, she saw that he'd had a few rough stitches in his cheek already—they were broken out now, but Tig had obviously had a hard day.

While she cleaned him up, she tried to organize her thoughts, but the pandemonium in her head was entrenched. After a couple of minutes trying to get control, she abdicated, deciding instead to simply proceed calmly and carefully and try not to do anything stupid until she had some clarity.

"You're not using your right arm. Is it broken?" She palpated its length, but couldn't feel a break.

"Nah, doll. It's numb—dislocated, I think. Second time today."

"I know how to put it back, but it'll hurt like fuck—especially if it's already happened today." She hadn't done it in a long time, but she remembered the move.

"Yeah, I know. You sure you know what you're doing?"

"Wouldn't have said so otherwise."

"Go for it, then."

She did, and he screamed, but then he had the use of his arm again. He was clearly in pain, though. She offered him a couple Percocet; he dry swallowed them while she was getting him water.

She got her first aid kit from the bathroom and patched him up with butterfly bandages. He was still a mess, one eye badly swollen, lots of cuts and bruises, but he looked moderately more human. "You need stitches, but that's not my area. And your shoulder is still fucked up. I'll drop you off at the ER if you want."

He'd been watching her putting first aid supplies away, but he looked up sharply when she said "drop you off." He shook his head. "I'm good here." Right. She should have sent him off with the others. Why the fuck she'd brought him back into her home and tended to him in her kitchen she could not say.

She made him an ice pack and handed it to him. Then she sat down across the island from him. "You tore up my club tonight. Want to tell me why?"

He shrugged and winced at the move. "I wanted to see you, and that asshole wouldn't let me in."

"Because I told him not to."

"What? Why, baby? What happened? We have something—I know you feel it."

"Fuck you. Don't start with that bullshit."

"Desi, what? Is this about this morning?"

"It's about me getting my head out of my ass. I don't fuck up, remember? You are a fuckup. I'm not interested. I assume your arm's too sore to ride tonight. You can sleep on the couch, but then I want you out." She picked up the first aid kit and moved past him to leave the room.

With his good hand, he grabbed her arm violently enough that she dropped the kit; it landed on the floor and popped open, its contents scattering. "Fuck, Des. No. No!"

She yanked her arm, trying to dislodge it from his grip, but he wasn't letting go. He stood, his hand iron around her arm, and pulled her to him. "Don't walk away. I'm sorry about the club. But don't walk away. Desi, please. Please."

She heard sincerity in his voice, and she saw it in his face—the one eye that wasn't swollen shut peering at her desperately. He looked vulnerable. He was injured and afraid she was going to hurt him more. She could see all of that. And it affected her, made her waver.

And she wanted it. She wanted him. She fucking wanted him.

She was so damn confused. No. _No_. This chaos and uncertainty was going to bring her down. It was already bringing her down. Her club was a ruin under their very feet. And it could have been so much worse. Now, she was looking at a lost weekend, a lost week at the most. But if someone had been more badly hurt? If the crowd had been different? If the cops had come? It was the club that had made everything else possible. If she lost that, she lost her foundation.

He gripped her arm a little tighter and said again, "Please, baby." She'd been lost in these thoughts. She knew—she _knew_—she was right to want him out of her life. She knew—she _knew_—he was a threat to everything important to her. Every scenario she played out led to danger and pain. Ruin.

But she fucking wanted him.

Even now, even after the hurt she'd felt in the morning, even after the disaster in the club, even as he stood there, battered, a physical manifestation of the chaos he was, her whole self, body and mind, was drawn to him. The biggest mistake she'd made in at least 20 years had been going to the cookout at Frank and Juice's and teasing this man—what, six months ago? The second biggest had been letting him stay with her. But she'd made them. She'd fucked up. And now, here they were.

"Fuck you. You are going to destroy me. I know it." She dropped her forehead to his chest; she gave in.

She felt his hands on her shoulders, massaging gently, and then his lips in her hair. "Desi." She ignored him.

He lifted his head. "Desi, look at me." She closed her eyes and ignored him.

His finger curled under her chin, and he lifted her face up. When their eyes met, he said, "Desi, I love you."

She breathed out a cynic's laugh. "Fuck. You throw those words around like they're nothing. Do me a favor. Don't say them again. I don't want them."

She saw the shadow pass through his good eye, but she didn't care. She couldn't trust those words from him, and she was going to preserve herself a sliver of sanity. No love. This wasn't love. Whatever it was, it wasn't that. She didn't need that, and she didn't want that.

He brushed his fingers along the ink on her face. "Okay, baby. I won't say it. Not for awhile. But I do, and I'll say it again someday. Meantime, I'll just show you." He kissed her. His mouth had gotten through remarkably undamaged, and he kissed her hard, his hands moving from her shoulders around to her back and holding her tight. He broke the kiss and dropped his head to suck her earlobe. "I want to show you right now."

She laughed, more gently this time. "You're in no condition to show me anything tonight."

"Sure I am. If you're on top. It's where you want to be, anyway. Come on, doll." He kissed down to her throat, and then he chuckled. "Oh, look at that pulse. Still pissed? I don't think so. I think it's something else now."

No, she wasn't pissed. She was lost.

She stepped back. "Okay, then. Let's go to bed." She took the hand of his good arm and started to lead him out of the kitchen, but she met resistance. He wasn't moving. He was looking at the sink.

"Tig?"

Without turning to her, he asked, "What's that?"

Her brain naturally worked quickly, and even though she hadn't been thinking about it at all, she understood immediately what he was asking. The strap-on was on a drying rack; she'd cleaned it, of course, after her play with Samantha that afternoon.

"You know what it is."

"Today? You used that _today_? Who with?"

"How's that your business?"

He yanked hard on her arm and pulled her back to him. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?"

She was getting tired of him yanking on her, that was sure. Pushing him off and taking a step away, she said, calmly, "We have no arrangement, Tig. No promises. And you know I prefer women."

"You prefer women to me?"

Typical male. Had to be the best. And, in truth, he was. She was angry and at loose ends, and she thought about lying. But lying always made things more complicated. Even small lies grew to big ones somehow. Besides, it just wasn't her style; it was a testament to how the day had fucked with her head that she'd even considered such game-playing.

She could see that he was upset. He was still fairly calm, but there was heat in his good eye. She spoke quietly, evenly. "No, I don't. But women give me something you don't. Something I need sometimes. I needed it today."

"What?" He grabbed her again but didn't move closer.

"Control. I have to fight with you for it. We negotiate and compromise. I don't have that fight with the women I fuck."

Now he took a step toward her, narrowing the distance she'd put between them by half. "You come harder when I'm in control, you know."

She stepped back again, freeing her arm from his grip. "That's not what it's about." She sighed and crossed her arms. "Tig, I'm going to fuck women. I'm going to play with people downstairs. I expect that you'll fuck girls at your clubhouse. If you're not comfortable with that, I get it, but then we need to stop this. As far as I'm concerned, we are nowhere near monogamy. I don't know if either of us is even built for that. And we don't even have a relationship yet. An hour ago, I never wanted to see you again. So you have a choice right here. Deal or don't."

His stare was intense. "I thought—I thought something happened in Napa. Between us. I thought—I don't know what I thought. I _didn't_ think you'd be fucking somebody else the _same goddamn day_." He raked a hand through his hair, and Desi went on alert. When he'd made that gesture before, he'd been ready to hurt her.

But she was pissed, too. "You thought something happened. You know what? So did I. And then you left me standing on the sidewalk, riding off without a word. You're an ass."

He came toward her again; they were doing some kind of angry dance, and now he was right in her face. "So, what? You fucked somebody to get back at me?" No explanation for the riding off, she noticed.

"This is how much you don't know me. Because I would never do anything like that. No. I needed to get my head on straight. I needed to _recover_ from you." She struck out and hit him in the chest with both hands, and he winced.

Shit. She'd just hit him. Where was her cool? She saw his anger dissipate, ebbing off of his injured face. "Desi. I'm sorry." He put his hands on her arms and rubbed them gently, a gesture meant to soothe. And she needed soothing.

She took a breath and calmed herself. "What's it going to be, Tig?"

Quiet for several seconds, he stared hard at her with his good eye. "No other men?"

"My interest in men is extremely limited. Specific." For all intents and purposes, it was a set of one. The one standing in front of her behaving like a jealous boyfriend.

"That's not an answer."

She didn't want to give him this concession, even though it was a moot point. But she was tired, and it was a moot point. She hadn't been with another man in years, other than some light play in the playroom. "Except what I do downstairs, which you've seen, no other men."

"Fuck. _Fuck_." He sighed. "Okay." He took her face in his hands and kissed her. Then she led him to bed.

-oOo-

They didn't have sex that night. Once he'd gotten undressed, she had a fuller picture of what he'd been through. He was bruises from scalp to knees, and she simply shook her head, led him to bed, and tucked him in. He was in pain and slept badly, tossing and moaning, despite the painkillers. She sat up most of the night and watched him sleep, settling him with her touch when she could. At some point, he grabbed her hand in his sleep and held it. She let him keep it; it was a long time before he let it go.

When morning dawned, she'd been up for two straight days, discounting a few brief dozes while Tig was quiet. She felt like death. And she had to go down in a few hours and face last night's destruction.

Tig finally settled into real sleep around dawn, but by then Desi was restless herself. After a couple of hours trying, she got up and got coffee started. As was her wont, while it brewed, she sat down and took stock. Who was the man in her bed? In a span of 24 hours, he'd disarmed her, abandoned her, nearly destroyed her business, told her he loved her, and had a jealous fit. Loose cannon, indeed. If she wasn't going to send him on his way, then she needed to figure out another way to find balance.

She supposed she could work on that over the next few days, because she thought it unlikely Tig would be able to ride right away. She had a houseguest again. Still.

She got up and started making an omelet. Focused on that project, she was startled when Tig said her name behind her. She turned; he was leaning in the doorway in just his jeans. Normally, that was the way she liked him best, but this morning he looked broken. The swelling was down considerably, but his face and chest were a positively psychedelic blend of colors. She imagined the pain was remarkable.

"Hey, love. Want some coffee? And I'm making a Spanish omelet, if you're interested."

"Yeah. Sounds good. And some of those pills?" His voice was hoarse, subdued.

She got him seated and brought him coffee and Percocet. As she turned back to the range, he grabbed her hand. "Des—I'm sorry. For all of it."

She regarded him silently. Again she considered that this Tig was the dangerous Tig. The cocksure Alpha, the sex maniac, the rage monster—she knew how to manage all of that. But the tender lover had the upper hand. She was caught off guard every time he appeared.

She nodded. "I know." She squeezed his hand before she shook hers free and went back to making breakfast.

Afterward, she sent him back to bed, and she got started with her day, picking up the pieces from the night before.

-oOo-

While Big Frank was inventorying the liquor losses and preparing the restock order, Desi took Toad back to the office. She sat on the little pleather loveseat, and he sat next to her, just about filling what space was left.

"Des, before you start, I'm sorry. Shit, I'm really sorry. I feel like I'm to blame."

"I should blame you, but it's my fault. I let you force my hand. I let my trust in you cloud my judgment. Too late to do anything about that. But I need to know why he was here. I need to know why you vouched for him—and why you risked our friendship, not to mention this place, to keep him here—when you knew damn well he was exactly the wrong guy for the job. I need to know this, because I need to understand what trouble he could still cause me."

Toad put his hand on her knee reassuringly. "He won't be a problem, Des. I promise."

"Right now, your promises are about worth the mess out there. So talk."

"It's family stuff. I'm not getting into it." He took his hand back.

Desi tried to stay calm, and she managed it, but calm was a struggle these past few days. "Do you understand what I risked for you? Do you see what happened because I trusted you about this?"

"It was your fuckin' boyfriend who started that shit. I don't know what you're doing with him. He's a psycho, and you know it. And you know Little Frank don't like him. You should stick to chicks, Des. You don't know guys like him. I do. He's the risk."

"Raven's job was to diffuse. He escalated. You're not going to tell me anything more about him? Even though he came at me last night?"

"No." He leaned in. "You gotta trust me. He won't be trouble to you."

"I don't have to trust you." Desi stood up and walked to the desk. "Get out. I'll mail your check."

"You know I don't need the money, Des. This was about working with you."

"I know. Get out."

-oOo-

Big Frank watched Toad stalk out. He turned to Desi, but he said nothing. He just put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed. They got busy cleaning up. After about an hour Nikki and Beth came in and helped. By the late afternoon, the place was cleaned up, the broken furniture and other detritus was out by the dumpsters, Desi had an ad placed for bouncers, and a list of people to call to prepare for a week's closing for restocking and refurbishing.

She was so tired she felt like she was on the verge of hallucinating. She kept imagining she was about to float away.

When she got upstairs, Tig was still in bed, her iPad propped on his chest, watching a movie—she'd shown him how to do it earlier in the week, after expressing surprise and giving him some gentle ribbing about his ignorance of what iTunes was.

Exhausted, she undressed and crawled into bed with him. Lying next to him and checking out the screen, she said, "Oh, Cool Hand Luke. I love that."

"You do?" He shifted and put his arm around her, and she carefully rested her head on his chest.

"Sure. It's a great movie. Am I hurting you like this?"

"Nah, doll. I love it." He kissed her head. They lay quietly like that, snug, watching an old Paul Newman movie.

Desi felt her resistances collapsing, along with everything else. She was so tired. Her brain was tired. She began to drift off, her head pillowed on Tig's chest, his arm around her. She felt safe. She needed a minute to feel safe.

She tried to remember not to trust it.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: **Sorry to have been quiet for a few days. I'm not sure I can keep up the daily posting thing I've had going. Um, obviously, I guess.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 15:  
**"Closer," Nine Inch Nails

A week later, Tig felt much better, but he was in no hurry to leave. Chibs had called a couple of times during the week to check in, and Tig had told him simply that his shoulder needed to heal, and he needed some time to get his head straight. Those things were true, but he could have gone back earlier if he'd wanted to.

Instead, he'd stayed with Desi and had maybe the best week of his life. For the first couple of days, when he'd been in so much pain that most of the time he had trouble focusing on anything else, she'd kept him in bed and tended to him. She'd pampered him. Sometimes she just sat next to him in bed and stroked him. No one had ever treated him like that before. Ever.

He was feeling better by the time the work week started and Desi had to focus on fixing her club. He'd gone down to help and, with Toad and Raven gone—and with them, their territorial bullshit—he'd actually been able to be some help. Not much, but some. Mostly he just watched her, impressed by her strength and savvy. He knew she was feeling anxious and unsettled, because she'd told him. But he wouldn't have known otherwise. She was calm, cool, and in control. People did what she told them to do. Contractors, vendors—they all worked on her schedule.

Wanting to help more, he'd offered to help her go through the bouncer applications—she'd gotten dozens within a couple of days—but she told him she thought he was just about the worst person in the world to judge a good bouncer. He'd laughed—she was probably right. By the end of the week, though, she had a couple of highly recommended guys she felt satisfied with. By then, too, the club had a new DJ cage, tables, and a fully restocked bar. They were reopening Saturday night.

At the same time, the renovations on her building next door were completed. She seemed to shift seamlessly from one task to the next, calling whatever information she needed at that moment immediately to mind. Tig was astonished.

They'd had a good week, too, he thought. She'd been busy and businesslike most of the day, but she didn't seem to be holding the club damage against him, and when they were alone together, they were together. They talked. After the first couple of days, when his soreness had backed off, they fucked. A lot. Tig realized that he was happy.

He woke early on Friday morning, feeling energetic and almost 100%. He was lying on his back. Desi was sleeping next to him, facing him on her side, her hand resting low on his belly. As he came into awareness and felt the weight of her hand, his morning wood became a sequoia. He lay there for a few seconds and relished the feeling of need, considering whether it would be counterproductive—or just unkind—to wake her. She hadn't been sleeping very well this past week. She'd told him she was a habitually good sleeper, and that had seemed to be true. But since his fight with Raven and the ensuing damage to the club, she'd been restless, and he'd spent a lot of time alone in her bed.

It _would_ be unkind; he needed to let her sleep. So he lay there feeling her hand so low her little finger was curled in the nest of hair above his cock. His cock, unused to being denied, was twitching, as if it were trying to get under her hand.

Screw it. He'd deal with it himself. He reached down, trying not to disturb her, wanting her hand where it was, at least, and started to stroke himself.

He was getting into it, his eyes closed, his hand picking up speed, when he felt her hand leave his belly and wrap around his. He opened his eyes to see her smiling sleepily at him.

"You need some help?"

"Oh, fuck, yes. I was trying not to wake you up."

She laughed. "Cute. Are you going to blow your wad the second I mount you?"

Something about the way she said _mount you_ made him think that, yes indeedy, that was exactly what was going to happen. She was still holding his hand holding his cock, and it was difficult to think at all. But he took a breath and said, "Nah, baby, I'll get you off first."

"See that you do." She sat up and leaned over him, grabbing a condom out of the nightstand. She straddled him, facing away: reverse cowgirl. It was a favorite position this week, with his shoulder in the state it was in. It was dramatically better and still improving, but he was beginning to think it would never be the same, which he supposed made some sad sense. He wasn't a young gun anymore, and he'd dislocated it twice in about six hours.

She rolled the condom on and mounted him, one hand holding his cock steady, the other cupping his balls. God, he loved that so much, the feeling of her fingers massaging and lightly scratching his sack as she rode him—but this morning he wouldn't be able to keep his word if she kept that up.

"Baby, lay back. Let me touch you." She turned and looked back over her shoulder at him. He knew she'd rather stay upright, in control, so he wouldn't ask again. But she did lay back, and his eyes rolled up at the way he shifted inside her as she did. "Oh, yeah. God, Des." He put his knees up between her legs and pushed into her, and she took a deep breath and rested her head on his good shoulder.

Now she was open and available to him; he could touch her everywhere, and he did. He ran his hands up and down her torso, along her sides, over her belly. He avoided her tits, though, until she was arching back every time he came near them.

When he did finally take her breasts in his hand, he immediately began working her nipples the way she liked—firmly, pinching, twisting, pulling. She arched deeply with a gasping cry and shifted her legs out from where they were still folded under her, putting her feet flat on the bed and adding her rocking rhythm to his thrusts.

Oh, shit. She was moving too fast; he wasn't going to be able to hold off for her. He released one breast and moved that hand to her clit, but she grabbed it and put it back, pushing her own hand between her legs instead.

He brought his head up so he could watch her touch herself. That wasn't helping his self-control _at all_, but he couldn't look away. It was about the hottest thing he'd seen. He was about to cry uncle and let go when he finally felt her coming.

It wasn't often that he paid much attention to what was happening to the body of the person he was fucking. Even when he was trying to get a girl off, he simply assumed that if he lasted long enough, she would—and that had been true. But he'd learned that he could tell when Desi was coming—not simply when the orgasm was happening, but when it was on its way. Her muscles moved differently; her breathing changed. And there was a shift in her attention—as if she'd started listening for something. He wondered if this were true for all women. It was fascinating, and unbelievably fucking hot.

With an effort of herculean proportions—and dropping his head back so he couldn't see his hands on her or her hands on herself—he forced his own orgasm back and focused on Desi. He drove his hips up, getting as deep as he could, working her breasts vigorously—but then he felt her leveling out. Shit. Shit. He was very much not leveling out.

Suddenly, she knocked his hands free of her breasts and sat back up. She leaned forward, her hands on his thighs, and just . . . went to town on him. He came like a Mack truck, shouting and bucking under her. Goddammit.

She kept moving gently until he was completely soft and slipping out of her, then she shifted off and removed the condom. She got up to discard it and then came back to lie at his side. He watched her do it all, wondering if there was something going on.

He put his arm around her and pulled her close. "Sorry, doll. Didn't keep my word."

"It's okay. I think it was the position more than anything." As far as he was concerned that was way up on the list of great positions, but he knew that she felt vulnerable lying back like that. He was about to say something—apologize, maybe—when she tipped her head up to look at him. "I have an idea, if you're interested."

He grinned. "You know me—I'm always interested."

"You want to pick me out a vibe?"

He was shocked. "What? I thought I couldn't use anything I hadn't tried."

"I didn't say you were going to use it. You want to watch?" Jesus. The look on her face was positively pornographic.

He thought about watching her touch herself a few minutes ago. "Yeah. Yeah, definitely." He got up and went to her toy chest. He hadn't been in here in a while. Their sex had been surprisingly awesomely normal while he'd been staying with her. He was excited at the prospect of picking out something for her to use.

He examined her collection of vibrators. He had vibes of his own; he often liked to play with the girls he fucked. But Desi's collection dwarfed his. They were pretty—lots of different colors. One was filled with little colored beads that almost looked like candy. Some had more than one part. "Can I pick any of these?"

"Any vibrator, yes."

He pulled a blue one out that a _lot_ going on, including a little swirled attachment on a coiled cord. He turned and showed it to her. She had moved on the bed and was now propped up on pillows in the middle, her legs spread wide. Her pussy was right there, still engorged from their sex. His cock stirred and stretched awake. He could go again, but he liked this idea of hers a lot.

"That's the Seahorse. Triple stimulation. Quadruple, really. Not for beginners. Sure, if that's the one you want me to use."

He lifted the little attachment. "Anal?"

"Yep." He closed his eyes. He was hoping she'd say that.

"Can I put it in you?"

"You are really trying to get up my ass, aren't you?"

Sometimes, especially when she was facing away, like this morning, the thought of taking her ass made him dizzy with desire. "Doll, you got no idea."

"You know the terms. But you can watch me."

He wasn't terribly disappointed, because he hadn't expected any other answer. "Fair enough." He grabbed some lube and got back in bed.

He handed the vibe and the lube to her, and she took them with a weird, thoughtful expression on her face. "Hey. Do me a favor."

"Anything, doll."

She handed him the vibe. "Put this in your mouth."

Not remotely what he'd expected her to say. "What? Why?"

"You want to try it out in another hole you've got? Put it in your mouth, try the different settings, and maybe I'll let you take over at some point."

"Not the anal part."

She smiled. "It's obviously clean, but that's fine. There's not much to 'take over' with that, anyway. Once it's in, it's just in."

Seemed like a very fair bargain. It had never occurred to him to try one out this way. He put the vibe in his mouth and turned it on. He jerked back, surprised. "Holy shit! What's going on in there?"

"The tips swirls. There are beads inside it, and they move separately. And, of course, it vibrates."

Better prepared for the sensation, he put it back in his mouth and tried out all three settings. When he was done, he handed it to her, a little dazed. Desi had an incomparable ability to make him feel intimidated without even trying. He was just not in her league in any way.

"What's wrong, love?"

"I'm just trying to think how a cock can compare to all that. My tip don't swirl, doll. And if there are beads in there, I should get to a hospital."

She laughed robustly, the husky sound thrumming in his veins. "Don't be threatened. You're fucking a woman who prefers women to just about every man but you."

A woman he wasn't able to get off this morning, despite his best efforts. But he shook that off. Too much thinking. There was kinky sex afoot. He sat at the end of the bed, between her legs. "Well, let's get with it, doll. Show me what you got."

She used the lube and inserted the little plug first. He swallowed hard watching that pretty little blue thing go into that pretty little hole. Tight and perfect, like a flower. Fuck, he wanted to feel that around his cock. _Fuck_.

"God, baby. I want your ass." His voice sounded like a growl even to him.

She stopped. "Someday. Maybe."

"What do I have to do to make that maybe a yes?"

He was looking at her ass. He heard her say, "Hey—up here," and he shifted his eyes to her face. "I have to trust you more. Unreservedly."

He almost asked how he could make that happen, but he knew. Be trustworthy. Don't hurt her. Take care of her. Don't fuck up. This love shit was hard fucking work.

But now the vibe was in her and on, and he had better things to focus on. Her head was back and her eyes were closed right away. The little seahorse thing was on her clit, and she was holding the vibe firmly inside her, moving it around—like it didn't already move enough! Already she was writhing and starting to moan. Jesus.

He wasn't content to watch, after all. And he'd had that thing in his mouth, so it was on his approved list now, too. He crawled up the bed to lie next to her. She was so wrapped up in what was going on with her that she didn't acknowledge that he'd moved.

He whispered in her ear, "Let me take it, baby." She opened her eyes and looked at him sideways. Then she nodded. He put his hand on the vibe, and she moved hers away. Then he leaned down to suck a nipple firmly into his mouth. She cried out and grabbed his head, her hands pulling his hair.

She was coming, strenuously, within a minute or two, driving her hips down on the vibe. Worried that he would hurt her, he backed it out a little, but she gasped, "No—leave it. Don't move!" He lost her breast when she sat up, flexing madly until she screamed, "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" and fell back, gasping. He'd never seen anything like it. She sat back up quickly and knocked his hand away and turned off the vibe, pulling it out, gasping again when she pulled the anal attachment out. She dropped it to the floor at the side of the bed, then fell back again.

"Fuck, Des. That was incredible. I'm so hard for you right now."

Panting, she opened her eyes and smiled. She rolled over and pushed up on her knees. "_Not_ my ass."

He'd never put a condom on so fast. Then he was on his knees behind her, sinking into her sweet pussy with a groan. Her anus was glistening with lube, though, and more relaxed than he was used to. So pretty. He couldn't help himself. He pressed a finger—just one, just a finger—into her.

She was off the bed in a flash, standing before he was sure what had happened. She didn't say anything; she only stared at him, still panting from her orgasm.

_Shit_. "Desi, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—I wasn't—." But she was walking away, into the bathroom.

Hitting himself soundly on the forehead—_moron_!—he dropped onto his back on the bed.

She was in there for a long time, and then he heard the shower start. He thought about going in there, but something—the tiny, little, miniature shred of common sense he had, maybe—told him to leave her alone. He pulled the condom off and tossed it. Then he put on his jeans and went to start the coffee.

He was fixing her a cup when she came into the kitchen, wearing jeans and a white oxford shirt. She stood in the doorway and crossed her arms.

"I need you to go."

"What?" He legitimately didn't think he'd heard her right.

Her expression was completely flat. "I need you to go back to Charming—or away from here, anyway."

"What? Desi—what?" He had no intention of moving in with her, but he could tell that she wasn't asking him to just go home. She wanted him to be gone. Completely. But that couldn't be right. No way she was going to torpedo what they'd started here because of one straying finger. It didn't make sense.

"You're neither deaf nor stupid. You hear and understand. This isn't what I want, and I need you to go." She might as well have been a robot.

"I guess I am stupid, because I _don't_ understand. You have to talk to me, Des. I'm sorry about what I did. I act without thinking sometimes." Most of the time, actually.

"You need to go." She turned and walked away.

No fucking way.

He went after her and grabbed her, swinging her back to face him. "I'm not going. We're not done." He grabbed her other arm and pulled her close. "Desi, shit. _We're not done_. I love you."

She stiffened at those last three words but was otherwise impassive. "_I'm_ done. I don't much care about the rest."

Tig felt real panic. And anger, too—this was crazy. It was like she'd laid a trap for him. But he had never felt like this for somebody before, and he wasn't going to throw it away. She was going to have to drag his lifeless body out of this apartment if she wanted him out before they'd gotten straight again. He was not leaving.

He shook her a little. "You're lying, Desi. You care. I know you do. You're pissed at me. Okay. I deserve that, and I'm sorry. But I'm not leaving." He leaned in and kissed the vein that was doing triple time in her neck. "Talk to me, baby."

She broke free of his grip, turned her back on him, and started to walk away. Now fully believing that she would in fact kill what they had, just to stay in control, he could feel the panic and anger rising and mixing together into a toxic brew in his chest. He tried to take a breath and calm down, but he wasn't like her. He didn't really do calm.

She was almost through the living room, probably headed to her den to lock herself in. He charged after her and grabbed her, putting her against the wall. Again he tried to take a second, but the flat look in her eyes was making him crazy. He knew she wanted him. In fact, he was pretty sure she loved him. He'd felt loved this week, as she took care of him. He'd felt it. He knew he had.

He flattened her against the wall with his body. "Okay, doll. You don't want to talk, we'll work it out this way instead." He ripped open her shirt and wrapped his hands around her, pressing her bare chest to his. Knowing better than to kiss her on the mouth right now, he focused on her neck and shoulders, sucking and nipping, while he slid a hand down into the back of her jeans and cupped her bare ass. He pressed her to his erection and thrust against her.

She stood there silently, nothing but that staccato vein in her neck indicating that she was even aware of his existence. He moved his hand around to the front of her jeans and pushed it down, between her legs, his fingers sliding over her clit, probing inside her. She was wet—dripping wet. He chuckled against her collarbone. "Oh, baby. You want it. Come on. I'm gonna make it all better."

"You think raping me is going to make anything better?" Her voice was steady, calm. Matter-of-fact. He stopped and met her eyes. Still flat. Jesus Christ. His stomach clenched at the idea that that's what she thought he was doing.

He pulled his hand out of her jeans and stood straight, taking his weight off of her. "You want me gone?"

"I want you gone."

He stared into her eyes, trying to will her to soften, to think about what they had, how great the past couple of weeks had been. She stared back. Nothing. She cared about her damn control more than anything else.

Shouting "FUCK!," he hit the wall on either side of her head. He didn't even see her blink.

Then he went and got the rest of his clothes on. When he came back into the living room, she was standing where he'd left her, making no attempt to close the shirt he'd ripped open.

She was still standing there when the elevator doors closed.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 16:  
**"Never Enough," The Cure

As soon as the elevator doors closed, Desi sank to the floor. She felt dizzy and sick. She sat on the floor, her shirt hanging open, and tried to get her head clear.

She sat there a long time, making herself think it out. She'd miscalculated, coming up onto her knees then, a submissive position that he especially liked, because she was feeling mellow after her orgasm and wanted to offer him a reward of sorts. She'd trusted him not to cross the line she'd drawn.

But that error had led to an important piece of information. Her instincts had been right—she couldn't trust him. She was better off knowing that for a certainty. She was closed to untrustworthy people. Fuck, she wasn't sure she knew any trustworthy people anymore.

Whatever she'd been feeling for him, or with him, or whatever, all of it was suspect. She'd known he was dangerous, and she'd been right. She'd had a moment's weakness—she'd had a few recently, in fact—but her head and eyes were clear again. She would not soon forget again to trust only what she was sure of. Only herself.

That was okay. She preferred her own company, anyway. She liked her sexual encounters to be free of emotional expectations. She'd made the life she had for a reason. It fit her. She'd gotten where she was by keeping a firm hand on the reins. She wasn't letting go now.

As she worked it all through in her head, the dizziness and nausea she'd been feeling subsided, too. She stood and went to her bedroom. At first, she went in simply to change her shirt and discard the one Tig had ruined, but as she stood in her closet, still feeling adrenaline in her blood, she decided instead to change into running clothes.

She ran the four miles to the gym, worked out for 90 minutes, and ran home. By then, she was warm, loose, and exhausted—and her head was relatively quiet. She showered and went to bed. She slept through the rest of the day and night, not waking until dawn. As far as she knew, she neither moved nor dreamt.

-oOo-

The club re-opening went well. The new bouncers, Dave and Terry, both seemed the right balance of presence and controlled power—forceful but not violent—that made a good bouncer. The club had had the best take it had ever had over the first week of the re-open, more than compensating for the lost days. Things were turning out okay.

Desi spent two weeks on her own—probably the longest dry spell she'd had in years, but it was dry by choice. She simply felt better, more comfortable, in her own company these days. She'd lived with Tig for almost two weeks, and, well, look how that turned out. She was enjoying the opportunity now to turn her brain down a little when she was alone.

When Frank called and invited her for dinner, though, she was glad. It had been weeks since she'd seen or even talked to her, and she was reminded that there was still one person she trusted. But she had one question first: "Is this just going to be the three of us, or is this another Sons cookout I'm being invited to?"

Frank laughed. "Nope. Just the three of us. I mean, there always seems to be a stray Son lurking around here somewhere, but I'm not inviting anybody. I just miss you."

"No chance Tig will be there?" She still hadn't talked to Frank about Tig. In reality, their whole relationship, if that's what the hell that was, had lasted less than two weeks, from the time he stormed into her apartment and tried to force himself on her to the time she threw him out and he tried to force himself on her, so there wasn't much to tell. Or there was a lot to tell.

The other side of the call was quiet for a minute. "No; Tig's not one who hangs around out here much. You want me to invite him?"

God, no. "No. Not at all. Just curious."

"There something you want to tell me, Des? Did you two hook up again?" Desi knew how Frank felt about that, and she could hear the concern in Frank's voice.

"We'll talk at dinner—or after it, maybe. Can't imagine Juice will want in on our gossip."

Now Frank laughed. "Depends on whether you have any good dish he can use against Tig."

-oOo-

Juice was the cook in that relationship, and he did a decent job. He'd grilled filets mignon and vegetables, and they'd sat out on their flagstone patio and had a lovely meal with a bottle of good wine Desi had brought. She and Juice had had a rough start to their friendship, because Juice had been jealous of her relationship with Frank, but things were easy between them now. Juice and Frank had settled into a good marriage. They were adorable together.

Desi sat and watched them interact, marveling at how much her little girl had changed. When she'd met her, Frank was just out of high school, small and young and furious. Desi recognized herself at that age. When Frank had finally told Desi her story, her heart had cramped. Frank had had an idyllic childhood, but then it had been wrested violently from her. When Desi thought about her own life—when people, like Tig, marveled at what she'd accomplished—she also thought about Frank. She was sure it was much harder to lose something so good and so loved than it was never to have had it, never to have known it.

While she was in high school, Frank had lost her parents, and then had been horribly abused by someone she trusted. Desi had almost accidentally stepped into a maternal role—yes, she'd also helped Frank recover sexually, and that connection had continued for some time, but the bond Desi felt was more protective and nurturing than anything.

It had taken her some time, and a lot of drama, but Frank no longer needed protection. She'd grown strong and secure. And Juice loved the hell out of her. He'd been a moron, flailing his way through learning to love Frank the way she needed to be loved, but he'd figured it out, and so had Frank, and now here they were, married, living in a lovely home in the woods, and being so sweet together Desi could die.

Ironic, then, that Desi herself had almost let her own life descend into ruin. Over a man. A _man_. She knew Frank was going to start asking questions as soon as Juice begged off to do whatever he was going to do, and she was nervous. She'd gotten through the past few weeks by not thinking about Tig. It was working, too. That book was closed. She wasn't sure she could open it again safely, even to review.

Desi and Frank cleaned up after dinner, and then Juice, with a kiss to Desi's cheek and a squeeze of Frank's ass, went to the living room and the Xbox. Frank led Desi back out to the patio.

"Okay, Des. Spill. What's going on with Tig?"

"How much do you know?"

Frank gave her a look; Desi supposed that question _did_ indicate that there was a lot to know. She wasn't sure, though, how much she would be telling. Frank was the last person Desi still trusted completely, but she had her own opinions about Tig, and Desi didn't want to get tangled up there.

"I know Tig went to the club a few months back. Other than that, nothing. It's not like Tig and Juice chat together over caramel macchiatos. And you've said nothing. But now I'm curious. You gonna tell me?"

She was. How much she would tell remained to be seen.

As it turned out, she told Frank almost everything. She smoothed the edges from the tenser moments, and she didn't get specific about the sex, but otherwise, she told her everything. She tried to think of another time that she'd disclosed so much personal detail in such a short space of time, but she didn't think such a time existed. She supposed she'd needed Frank. Desi wasn't used to being the one in need, not anymore. But now she felt unburdened.

And Frank, this woman 20 years Desi's junior, sat quietly and listened without judgment or interjection, even though she had her own strong feelings about Tig. When Desi was done, Frank stayed quiet for a few long moments. Then she said, quietly, "Fuck, Des. You're in love with him."

Desi laughed. "No, sweets. No, I'm not. Momentary distraction, but everything is back to normal now."

Frank shifted in her chair and leaned forward. "Desi, you're the smartest person I know. You think things out like nobody ever. Clear-headed. Right? So why are you telling _yourself_ a lie?"

She had a retort queued up right away. She was _not_ in love with Tig. But the look in Frank's eyes stopped the words in her throat. She took a second and considered. Was she? She'd always prided herself on being open to love—particular, yes, very particular, but open. She wasn't a romantic, but her heart was full and lively. Was she in love with him?

She honestly had no idea. That would take more thinking than she was willing to do sitting on Frank's patio. "Okay, maybe I do—maybe. I don't know how I feel about him. But that's the real point—he confuses me. He makes me sloppy—makes my thinking sloppy—and I can't have that. So it doesn't actually matter how I feel about him."

"Look, Desi, I'm not going to sit here and plead his case. I think he's an asshole. More than that, I think he's dangerous. Something happened a month or so ago—which sounds like it would be around the time he came up to your apartment—that had Juice in a snit about him. I don't know what; he wouldn't say. He tells me everything he can, though, so it was big. And bad. I just want you to be clear-headed about it. It worries me that you're not."

Just then, Juice walked out from the house. "I was in the kitchen and heard the last few minutes." Frank gave him a fierce look. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop, baby. I was just getting a beer. But the windows are open." He turned to Desi. "You need to stay away from him, Desi. He's a violent son of a bitch."

Desi was struck by Juice's intensity. She knew he didn't like Tig, but this was something more. "What did he do?"

Juice shook his head. "Just stay away. I'm serious."

-oOo-

She had no intention of seeing Tig again, so staying away would not be a problem, especially if Frank and Juice, her only real connection to him, wanted them to stay apart.

Having talked it out with Frank, Desi felt a lot better. Yes, she'd decided. She loved Tig. But she knew it didn't matter. She wasn't one to let her heart lead her around. And she had no ambition for a romantic commitment in her life. So she acknowledged her feelings, confronted them, and set them aside to focus on the things that were important to her—the life that was hers, that she'd made. Her work. She was getting more involved in city politics, using the money and influence she'd worked hard to accrue to effect some real change.

She started playing again. Rocky's feelings had really been hurt when Desi had backed away from her more romantic advances, so they weren't friends anymore, but Samantha, with no more interest in romance than Desi, was a constant, a good friend and playmate. And there was Andrea, who had recently introduced her to Karen. The three of them had spent a delightful afternoon at Desi's, making good use of the swing and Desi's armoire—which she'd begun to think of as her toy chest, as Tig had called it.

The club was running smoothly. The new bouncers were working out. No sign of Raven. No sign of Toad, either, and Desi was sad to have lost that old friendship. But it was for the best, she supposed. She still thought about Tig, and found that she missed him, but that would pass. She knew it would, eventually.

Things were back to normal. Desi had reclaimed her center. She felt good.

Mostly.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: **This story is really hard to write, and would probably not be happening without the affectionate support of the Freak Circle, and especially not without the eternal patience and thoughtful reading of **Simone Santos** and **MuckyShroom**, who have spent a lot of time pulling me off the ledge and generally cheering and cheerleading. Thank you, my friends.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 17:**  
"Nothingman," Pearl Jam

Friday night, and Church was over. It had been an uneventful meeting. They were finally clear of the cartel, and it had been an amicable separation. It meant thinner paydays, but the club's partnership with Diosa was starting to pay off pretty nicely, and Jax and Nero were working on bringing Dondo and his film business into the fold. The Sons were doing more legit business than anything these days. It had been so long since things were this calm around the clubhouse that Tig realized the younger patches had no idea it could be so boring to be a biker.

Tig was sitting at the bar, finishing a glass of Jack and deciding to just head home, Friday party be damned, when Hap sat down next to him. Surprised, he turned to face him. Since the vote on Tig's patch a couple of months ago, Hap had been no longer angry but not yet friendly. The asshole was a champion grudge-holder, and Tig had given up.

Hap turned and met his stare. "You been leaving for home earlier than me lately." Hap had a wife and kid he'd rather be with, so he did short time at the Friday parties unless another charter was in town. "What's up? You got an old lady chained up in a closet or somethin'?"

Tig laughed. Just like Hap. Barely speak to him for—Jesus Christ, _eight months_—beat the holy shit out of him twice, and then just sit down and start talking like they're still buds. And he'd gotten uncomfortably close to the truth, perceptive son of a bitch. He hadn't seen Desi in nearly two months now. He'd spent far more time obsessing over her than he had actually in her company. But he was still messed up. Trying to move on, but still messed up. She'd gotten to him in a way no one ever had. He couldn't just turn that off like a switch.

And here was Hap, first time he'd spoken to him casually in months, digging right into that sore spot.

"You're an ornery bastard, Hap."

He took a drag from his cigarette and nodded. "Yep. What's goin' on with you?"

There was a time when he might have told Hap. Now, he was thinking there might be a time again when he would be able to tell him something like this. But not yet. "Nothin', man. Just bored with the bitches around here, I guess. And—you know."

"Yeah." He stood up and put his hand on Tig's shoulder. "I'm headin' home. Get back on the horse, brother. Just be careful." He walked off, out the door. Home to his family.

Tig watched him go. Hap had just told him he needed to get laid.

He turned and scanned the room. He really was bored by these girls. All they were was willing. That had always been enough. But now they had nothing to offer him—nothing he wanted, anyway.

He shook that shit off. It was ridiculous for him to pine after the coldhearted bitch who'd thrown him off. Not who he was. He saw Deanna standing by the pool table, watching V-Lin and Chibs. Probably the most interesting chick in the room, and no one had claimed her yet, looked like. He went over.

"Hey, doll."

Deanna turned around, laughing. She had a good laugh. Husky, like—never mind like who. "Tig! How ya doin', baby? Thought you forgot about me."

He stuck his finger in the bottom of her deep neckline, right between her heavy tits. "Naw, doll. Couldn't forget about you. Come on, I'll show you what I remember."

She winked and came along, waving to the guys playing pool, who made vague noises of protest and went back to their game. Plenty of pussy to go around.

He took her back to the apartment, and she started to undress right away. "What am I in for tonight, Tiggy? What you got up your sleeve for me?"

"Nothin', doll. Just a fuck." He pulled her close and kissed her. She pulled back for a second, confusion in her eyes. He didn't know what he'd done. He couldn't have been too rough. He'd been sure to be gentle.

That's what it was. He was too gentle. Jesus, what kind of sick fuck was he that being normal freaked a bitch out? "Don't get ideas, Dee. I just want to get off."

She pulled away. "Okay, Tig. How you want me?"

"All fours, on the bed."

She winked. "You got it." She got into position. He pulled a condom out of his pocket and opened his jeans. Kneeling behind her on the bed, he put the condom on and grabbed her hips. She had a nice ass. Tramp stamp—a curlicue heart with wings, the point of the heart trailing right down to her cleft. He'd always thought that was sweet. Young, somehow.

"I'm going up your ass, doll."

She turned quickly and looked back at him. "Wait, Tig. Use some lube? You're a big boy, you know."

Normally he'd say no. The condom was lubed. Normally, he say that was enough, and maybe use some spit. He almost said and did as much. But something stopped him. "Okay, doll. Hold up." He got up and got lube out of the bathroom. He put a dollop on her asshole and rubbed it around. She gasped and flexed at his touch. Nice. He slid his thumb in and out a few times. Then he grabbed her hips and shoved himself in, one move, to the hilt.

She cried out in discomfort, and he had a moment's regret for moving so fast. Then she moved back toward him, and he forgot regret. She was tight. He wondered if Desi would feel like this. No—she'd feel better. He knew she would. But he still closed his eyes and imagined he was with her instead of this Crow Eater.

She started making noise, getting into it. She was getting in the way of the picture in his head. "Shut up!" he commanded, and she was quiet.

He had no idea if he'd done anything for her, and he didn't care. He came, he pulled out. Tossing the condom, he stood and closed his jeans. "Thanks, doll. Go on now." He sat down on the edge of the bed.

Deanna got dressed. Her hand on the doorknob, she turned back. "You okay, Tig?"

He glared at her. Nosy cunt. "Shut up and get out." She left without another word.

-oOo-

Tig pulled up in front of Hap and Viv's house. It was Hope's first birthday, and—miracle of miracles—he'd been invited to the party. Once Hap had talked to him at the clubhouse last week, everything was as it had always been between them. Tig briefly considered telling him to fuck off, but he didn't, for two reasons. First, he'd fucked up, royally and repeatedly, and he'd always known Hap to be long on loyalty but short on forgiveness. Second, he was just damn glad to have his friend back.

Hap was probably the only Son Tig wouldn't have voted against if their situations had been reversed, but their situations would never have been reversed. Hap would never do the things Tig had done. They were two sides of a coin. He was just as violent—more, even—but he had impulse control Tig did not. When Hap lost his shit, he was an unparalleled menace, making Tig look like a fluffy bunny in comparison, but it took a lot for him to lose his shit.

The party was in their backyard. Tig went back, holding a gift for Hope, a stuffed dog—a German Shepherd that looked a lot like their dog, whom they'd named Tigger, and whom Tig adored and had missed almost as much as Hap. When Hap saw him, he came up and gave him a one-armed hugged and handed him a beer. Like nothing had been between them.

Tig still didn't feel completely back in the bosom of the club. He'd felt some disconnect ever since Clay had been ousted—and that had been years, now. He knew Jax didn't trust him; he'd been too close to Clay. But he'd been betrayed as much as any other member by the ex-President. Okay—no, he hadn't. Clay had betrayed Jax most of all. But Tig had done Clay's dirty work for years, and he'd been just as stunned by his perfidy as anyone—more, because his trust in his friend had been complete. Clay had traded on Tig's trust and affection to get him to do things in the name of the club that weren't in the club's interest at all. And now that burden was lashed to Tig's kutte.

But Hap had welcomed him back into his home, at his daughter's birthday party. So things were looking up. He steered clear of Hope, though. He loved that beautiful little girl, but everybody seemed to think what he'd done with her blanket meant he was perving on the girl herself. That couldn't be less true, and it hurt, but he'd brought it on himself. So he played with Tigger, had a few beers and a piece of chocolate cake with pink frosting, and watched Hap and his family.

Hap was a different man with his family. He wasn't the Killa. He was a man who had love—who loved and was loved. He and Viv had come through hell to get where they were, but now they were a thing of beauty. Watching Hap with his daughter and his wife made Tig's heart hurt. He'd been jealous since Hap had given Viv his crow, but he'd been upset about losing his compadre, the other freak in the family, who'd been up for almost anything and got off on the violence like Tig did. Watching him now, Tig realized he was jealous for an entirely different reason. Now, he'd had a brief moment when he'd thought he had love. When he'd felt it. With Desi. And that was gone.

He shouldn't have left. He should have stayed and made her talk. He gave up too easily. For probably the thousandth time in the past two months, he took his phone out. For probably the thousandth time, he put it back almost immediately. She'd told him over and over she didn't want what little he had to offer. He'd been right to go, and he was right to leave her alone.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 18:  
**"Burn," The Cure

Desi turned the lock on the door and went back to the bar. Dave and Terry were sitting down with beers; Mike, the DJ, was heading over, too. They always took a few minutes after the club closed to hang out, decompress, and debrief.

It had been a hectic night—the Friday of finals week and the club had been packed with seniors, wannabe punks about to join the corporate workforce, but first getting rowdy and celebrating. Dave and Terry had had their hands full, but the real rowdies were happy rowdies, and everything had gone smoothly. Desi had put out a warning not to bloody any fresh young grad's face; they had their ceremony tomorrow, and Desi saw no reason to ruin all those parents' photo albums. She'd hired good bouncers.

Everyone had worked hard, though, and was ready to get home. Within an hour of locking the door, Big Frank and Desi were alone, the club swept up and the dishwasher running. They were sitting at the bar, working together to tally receipts.

There was a frantic pounding on the delivery door, and Desi and Big Frank looked at each other. She stood, but he held her back. He stood on the footrest of his stool and leaned over the bar, grabbing the Slugger. The pounding was still going on, and he went to the door. It had a security latch on it, so he opened it a crack, until the latch was extended.

A shot rang out, and Big Frank dropped backwards to the floor, a small hole in his cheek. He wasn't moving. Desi jumped off her stool and took a couple of steps toward him, her first thought to help him, before she recognized the danger and froze. Then the door flew open, and Raven stepped over Frank's body and came into the room.

Shit! Her brain kicked into high gear, processing several strands of information at once. She was alone. As far as she knew, she and Raven—and, God, hopefully Big Frank—were the only people in the whole building at 3am. She was unarmed and, as she watched Raven pick up the Slugger Big Frank had dropped, she had no chance for a weapon. There were no drugs in the building; she'd given out the last of the molly she had on hand earlier and planned to get with her supplier tomorrow. That was good, at least, because this situation was sure to end with cops in her club. In fact, her phone was sitting on the bar. Maybe she could work her way back there. She took a step backwards.

"Don't move, slut." His voice was low, and he pointed a gun at her—a revolver, maybe a .357, but she didn't know guns very well. She wasn't a fan. She was currently regretting that. Okay. Reason was what she had left.

"Raven. You don't need to point that at me. I'm willing to talk." He had a nasty, red scar on his cheek, as if part of it had been removed and the healing hadn't gone well. It did not improve his features.

"You got nothin' to say I want to hear, bitch."

_Okay. Okay. Calm_. "But you want something, right? Tell me what it is. Maybe we can work it out." She took another small step back. A couple more and she'd be at the bar. Where her phone was.

He looked her up and down and she thought, _Shit. He's going to rape me. Okay. Okay. Calm_. If he got close enough to do that, maybe he'd drop his guard. She didn't know guns, but she had good control over her own body and could make it do things he wouldn't expect. She could get out of almost any hold, and if she could get behind him . . . and if not, she could survive a rape, as long as she stayed calm and that's all he had in mind.

"You got nothin' I want, you fuckin' skank." He pulled the trigger.

She felt the hit—like getting punched by the Hulk—before she heard the shot, and then she was on the floor, her right shoulder both completely numb and screaming hot. She didn't know if he was a suck shot and meant to kill her or if he'd made the shot he intended, but she was pretty sure that, blood loss aside, it wasn't fatal. She decided to play dead—or at least unconscious.

But he grabbed her by her right arm, and the pain was too intense to pretend anything. She screamed. He dragged her across the floor to a support beam, propping her up and yanking her arms behind her. She was about to pass out from the pain, and she needed to stay alert, so she bit down on her tongue until she tasted blood. He was binding her with what sounded like duct tape. She kept thinking, cycling through scenarios, trying to understand what he could be doing, whether she had any angles to play. But panic was coming up on her, and her trains of thought kept hitting it, like a brick wall.

He came around in front of her and tore off a piece of duct tape—she noticed that it was pink—and taped her mouth shut. With a nasty grin, he felt her up, until he found her elevator key. He shoved his fingers into her pants pocket and pulled it out. Then he walked out of the club, stepping roughly over Big Frank's body. When he came back, Desi's heart finally sank, and her brain just stopped.

He was carrying two big drums of gasoline, big enough to make him struggle, the muscles in his arms and neck bulging. She watched as he went back out and came in with two more. Again, and two more. He was going to turn everything she'd worked for into an inferno.

And she was going to burn alive.

He left her alone while he went up in the elevator with a drum. Taking his time, he made several trips. She knew what he was doing. He was dousing every floor. No alarms had gone off, so that meant that either he hadn't set the fires yet, or he'd disabled the alarms. Or both, she supposed.

Finally he doused the club, all around the perimeter and up the walls. He didn't douse her, which was, she supposed, a small mercy. Then he went back up the elevator. Now, she understood, he was lighting the fires.

When he came down, he came through the stairwell. Still no alarms, so he must have disabled them, probably before he'd pounded on the door. Likely, then, the sprinkler system was dead, too. He used a Zippo lighter—arson with style—and set fire to the wall behind the bar. When the flames hit the booze, the whole building would be a Molotov cocktail.

He kicked Big Frank's body completely clear of the door, gave Desi a sharp little salute, and left.

She didn't even wonder at his hatred of her. It didn't fucking matter. She'd known he was a bad guy, and she had let friendship trump judgment. Now everything she'd worked for was literally in flames.

She watched the fire catch. It was pretty, really, the colors dancing. Fire was a recurring theme in her body art—a large fire-breathing dragon on her front, a flaming live oak tree on her back, a small flaming heart on her arm. She'd always thought of fire as cleansing, a symbol of freedom. As smoke filled the room and she started to choke and lose the ability to breathe, her nose and throat scorched by the superheated air, she had a moment of humor, thinking it ironic that fire would cleanse away the fire she'd had inked into her body.

With the tape on her mouth, she felt like the choking got bad fast, even as she sat on the ground, but she stayed calm. At least she'd be dead before the fire got to her. That was something.

The bottles of booze behind the bar began to explode, like fireworks sending her off.

Her last thought before the smoke took her under was of Tig. He had been her last thought every night, too. No reason now not to embrace the fact that she loved him. She thought she'd missed a chance at something good.

But the time for regret was over.


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 19:**  
"Would," Alice in Chains

Tig rode to Sacramento. It was just a stupid little errand run, but he'd volunteered. He'd stayed away from Desi for three months, and he was going to stay away. She'd made herself clear. But he was still missing her, a steady abrasion in his head, and this was an opportunity to ride by her place, anyway. Maybe see her on the street. Just see her. Just for a second.

He knew it was pathetic, but he didn't care.

He handled Jax's errand, bringing an envelope to a guy downtown. Jax was working some angle, but he hadn't brought the club in yet. Tig was content not knowing at this point. He didn't see Jax, after everything he'd done to get them out of the cartel shit, bringing the Sons into more heavy duty work now. He figured it had to do with Diosa. Maybe greasing some government palms.

Whatever. He did the job and headed for midtown. Maybe he'd grab a burger at that pub.

When he got to her block, he pulled up so sharply he almost laid the bike down. Her building was gone. It was just _gone_—as was most of the building next door, the one she'd bought and had just renovated. There was nothing but rubble. _Burnt_ rubble.

He got off the bike and walked over, stunned. The whole scene was blocked off with chain link fencing, and a demolition crew was working on what was left. This had happened a while ago. Weeks, maybe. Holy Christ—Desi! Jesus, was she okay? Was she—Tig folded over, his hands on his knees, trying to breathe. "No, no, no, no, no, no. No. No. Aw, God!"

When he was fairly sure he wasn't going to pass out and/or lose his mind, at least not immediately, he pulled out the prepay and dialed Juice. He was in Vegas, working some kind of job for the charter there, but he would know. Or he would know how to find out.

When Juice answered, Tig jumped right in. "Where's Desi? Is she okay?"

There was a brief silence before Juice asked, "What're you talking about, dude?"

"Don't fuck with me, man. I'm standing outside her building. What's left of it. Where is she? _Is she okay?_"

Another pause. Tig heard volumes in these pauses. "Juice, I swear to fucking God—"

"She's okay. All I'm telling you. She's gonna be okay. Stay away from her. I mean it." The call ended.

Well, that was not fucking good enough. But she was alive. His insides felt abused. He had to see her, see with his eyes that she was okay. He thought for a minute, considered what Juice had said, made something resembling a plan, and got on his bike, heading back to Charming at top speed.

-oOo-

He pulled up Frank and Juice's long gravel driveway. There were no cars, but they had a big garage, so he hoped that Frank's car was in there. He hadn't considered that she might be working. He pulled up to the top of the driveway. As he dismounted, he saw Frank walking toward him from the backyard.

She was a little slip of a thing, but she packed a lot of attitude into that small frame, and she looked ready to take his head off now. He figured she'd talked to her old man. "What do you want, Tig?"

"Seems like you know. I need to see her. She's here, right? I know she's here." The more he'd thought about it, the more sense it made. If she wasn't here, she was in the hospital, or she'd left town, and that was too much to contemplate right now.

"Not a good idea. She's okay. That's all you need to know. Time to take off." She _was_ here, then. Good.

"Yeah, fuck you, ya little twig. I'm seeing her." He shoved her aside—that would probably bite him in the ass, but he could take Juice—and headed for the house.

At that moment, Desi came out the back door and stepped onto the patio. Relief hit him hard. Her right arm was in a sling, but she looked otherwise unharmed. She seemed small, though. Frail.

"Jesus. Desi! Oh, thank God!" He strode—almost ran—to her and pulled her into his arms. After a second, he remembered her arm and adjusted to be careful of it; she hadn't complained, though. And then he felt her relax into his embrace, her left hand snaking around to his back, grabbing at his kutte, holding it tight.

He pulled back and put his hands around her face. She wasn't wearing any makeup. She was pale, and she looked young and vulnerable. "God, baby. When I saw your place—fuck, I about lost my mind."

She smiled a little lopsided smile. "I'm okay." Her voice was raspy and faint.

"Oh, Des. I'm sorry." He bent down to press his lips to hers. He was gentle at first, but then she kissed him back, sucking his tongue into her mouth. Groaning, he released her head so that he could pull her whole body closer.

After several intense seconds, she broke the kiss and pushed him back, wheezing, starting to cough. When she could, she said, "Sorry—not so great at breathing right now." Her voice was really raw. She'd been _in_ that fire, that was clear. Jesus.

"Baby, what happened?"

Frank spoke up then. Tig had forgotten she was even there. "Desi, what do you want to do here?" Tig turned. The little shit was standing there, arms crossed, looking like she thought she could take him down. He admired her spunk, anyway.

Desi cleared her throat. "It's fine, Frank. I'm glad he's here." He smiled—more relief. Now he was feeling a tendril of hope that he could do more here than simply make sure she was okay.

Frank stood there, staring at him, for another beat or two, then said to Desi, "I'll be inside. Let me know if you need _anything_." She turned her eyes back to Tig. "And I'm perfectly happy to shoot you, so behave yourself."

He chuckled. "I've seen you shoot, squirt. Not worried."

She flipped him off and went into the house. Yeah, he liked her fine.

Desi watched her walk into the house, and then she turned back to him. "Sit with me." She walked over to the grouping of patio furniture, and Tig was glad to see her sit on the little couch thing instead of one of the chairs. He sat next to her.

"God, Desi. Why didn't you call me, let me know?"

She didn't respond, except to smile, sadly, and shake her head. And he guessed he knew. He hated it, but he knew. He wasn't in her life. Hadn't been, anyway. But he was bound and determined to get back in now.

"Tell me what happened."

She didn't at first. At first she simply stared into his eyes. Her eyes weren't expressionless now. Now they swirled with feeling, with meaning. He didn't trust himself to read them, though. He felt—he felt frightened, a little. To prompt her, to say something to reach her, he said her name. "Desi."

"It was Raven. He killed Big Frank, he shot me, and he set the building on fire. He meant the fire to kill me, but I guess the firefighters were there before it could."

Tig reached out to touch the vine on Desi's face; his hand was shaking. Oh, Raven was going to die slow and bloody. "I want to know the whole story, baby. Every detail."

She was quiet again; he could just about see the gears spinning. Then she told him, her voice low, barely more than a whisper. Overcome with coughing, she had to stop in the middle, and he went into the house and asked Frank for a glass of water for her. Frank eyed him suspiciously and got him what he asked for.

Desi gave him so much detail that he felt sure it was the whole story. By the time she was done, his head was pounding with rage he was fighting to contain. He was sick with it.

"Where is he now?" He asked it through clenched teeth.

"I don't know. I saw Toad at Big Frank's memorial, and he says he's disappeared."

Tig was being bludgeoned by images of Desi burning to death. He knew exactly what that looked like. What it sounded like. What it smelled like. He'd been forced to watch his daughter die like that. He jumped up and stalked a few feet away, afraid that he'd lash out. He squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his hands through his hair.

"Tig?" Her tone was uncharacteristically tentative, and not merely because her throat was raw.

He turned back to her and growled, "I'll find him. I swear I will. And then I'm going to kill him. No—I'm gonna _eat_ him. I swear to God, Des. He will suffer long and hard for what he did to you. I'm gonna eat him and _then_ I'm gonna kill him."

And Toad would pay for putting that piece of shit in Desi's way, but Tig kept that to himself.

"No." She started to say more but coughed instead. Coming out of his gruesome reverie, He sat back down with her and put his hand on her back, waiting for her to be able to continue. "_I'm_ going to kill him. You can eat him if you want, but _I'm_ going to kill him. He took everything. Burned my fucking life to the ground. He's mine."

She meant it, but she didn't understand what it was to kill. "Desi—no. That's too much risk. It's too—it's not you."

She made a one-sided shrug. "No risk. Nothing to lose."

The thought that she'd truly lost everything stunned him. "You lost everything? Aren't you insured?"

Now she looked at him like he was an idiot. "Yeah, I'm insured. Everything was insured. And I've got money. I won't be on the street. But you don't understand what that building meant to me, how hard I worked, how much of me was in those fucking walls. I can't replace any of that. I won't even try."

He didn't know what to say.

She coughed again. "Look, this is killing me. What got burned was inside, from the smoke and fiery air. I can't talk much longer."

He closed his eyes and tried to take a calming breath, dealing with the thought that she was burned inside. His hand on her cheek, he asked, "You gonna be okay?"

She did another half shrug. "Yeah, mostly. Eventually."

He had one more extremely important question for her. His hand on her arm, he asked, "Desi—Desi, can I stay? I need to be with you. Will you let me?"

Her voice was almost silent now. He had to lean in to hear her. "I'm not—I can't"—she cleared her throat—"I can't fuck right now."

She didn't understand at all. "God, baby, I don't care about that. I just want to be with you. Hold you. Know you're safe." He thought about asking her to come home with him, but in its best condition, his apartment was a hovel and not fit for someone like Desi—and it was not currently in its best condition.

She looked out over the little orchard next to the yard. He sat and waited. When she turned back to him, she was smiling. "I'd like that. But you're going to have to get past Frank."

He grinned. "Frank's little. I can take her—I think." Standing, he held his hand out to her. They walked into the house hand in hand.

Frank took one look at them and groaned. "Oh, fuck me. You're sleeping over, aren't you?"

He just grinned and pulled Desi close. Frank looked at her friend and then shook her head. "Fine. But I'm still happy to shoot you—and I've been practicing, asshole, so you _should_ be worried."

"Yes, ma'am. I'll be an angel, promise."

"Riiight. You're getting carry-out for dinner. Chinese."

"On my bike?"

"Figure it out. Nothing delivers out here." She was shaping up to be a formidable old lady. Now that he was in a good mood, he enjoyed her sass.

"I'll call a Prospect—but I'll pay, promise."

"Fine. Beer's in the fridge. Hard stuff's in the dining room. I'm playing Portal 2." She walked away.

Desi was laughing silently. He leaned down and kissed her. He wanted to tell her he loved her, but he held it back. She'd told him not to. He wanted her to be ready to hear it before he said it again.

He wanted her to believe him.

-oOo-

Freddy, a Prospect, brought dinner in the club van, and stayed to eat with them. After he left, Tig and Desi spent a good portion of the rest of the night ensconced on Frank and Juice's big sectional sofa, watching Frank shoot things. Tig thought it actually looked fun. Not that he'd admit it.

Desi said almost nothing, but they didn't need to talk. Tig loved sitting quietly, leaning back, Desi stretched out and curled against him, her head on his chest. He felt relaxed—calm. First time in a long while. Now _he_ could take care of _her_. And he would. His heart swelled at the thought.

She'd used an inhaler a few times during the evening. He wanted to ask about all of that, to know how badly hurt she really was and how she would recover, but she'd talked to him a lot earlier and was obviously paying the price now. Those questions could wait.

Later, after Frank had headed off to bed, Desi led him to the guest room. He didn't know how much to undress. When he'd been too hurt to fuck, when he was at her place, he'd stripped completely and so had she, but this felt different. He didn't want her to think he would try anything. But he didn't wear underwear, so it was jeans or nothing. So he sat on the bed and watched her, hoping to take her lead.

She took off the sling, and he realized he was being an asshole. Standing, he asked, "Do you need help, doll?"

She turned her head and smiled at him. "No—I do this every day," she whispered. She did have some use of her arm, but it moved slowly, stiffly. She unbuttoned her top and let it drop off her shoulders. It had been almost a month since she was shot, so what he saw on her back was the healing scar of a nasty exit wound. It marred what had been a beautiful floral piece. Bile rose up in his throat—not because he thought the scar was ugly; he didn't. He thought it was . . . poignant. But the rage he'd felt when she explained what that bastard had done to her was topping over.

Now was not the time for rage, though, and he muscled it aside.

She unhooked her bra from the front and let that drop off her shoulders as well. Then she shimmied out of her jeans and came to the bed. Naked. He dropped his own jeans and joined her. When she gave his hard cock a skeptical look, he smirked sheepishly. "Sorry, baby. Ignore that. I just missed you." She smiled.

She arranged several pillows in a sloping stack before lying back on them. He assumed she needed to be propped up a little because of whatever had happened to her lungs. When he reached out to stroke the much smaller scar on her chest, just under her shoulder, she flinched, then relaxed, letting him trace the contours of the damaged skin.

He was overcome. She'd almost died. That motherfucker tried to kill her. Shot her and tried to _burn her alive._ He thought of Dawn again, and how she'd died screaming for him, for her daddy, to save her."God, Des. God." He fought back tears, afraid they would upset her. He propped pillows up for himself and pulled her close, his arms around her, his lips in her hair.

Whatever he had to do, she would have retribution. And he would keep her safe. From here on out.

Whatever he had to do.

-oOo-

He was roused in the dark by the sound of Desi struggling to breathe. He sat up to find her sitting hunched over on the side of the bed, inhaler in her hand. He got up and came around to squat next to her, his hands on her knees.

"What can I do?" She shook her head. Without guidance from her, he had no idea, so he stayed where he was, helpless, while she rode out the fight. Finally, her breathing eased. She reached for a glass of water on the nightstand and took a long drink. Then she turned to him and smiled.

"I'm okay, Tig. Sorry to wake you." God, he hated the weakness in her voice. He sat next to her on the bed.

"Can you tell me what's going on with this—how you're hurt, I mean?"

"Like I said before—smoke and hot air. My insides got singed. It's getting better, but it's taking some time." She rubbed her belly—still trim, but no longer sporting a six-pack—and laughed a little. "I'm going to have a lot of work to do when I can breathe again."

He put his hand on hers. "You're beautiful."

Smiling, she turned her hand so she could hold his. "Thank you, but it's not about that. I like being strong. I'm not right now."

"Not true, baby. What you been through? You're strong."

"We'll see." She lay back down, propped again on the pillows. He went back around and slid in next to her, taking her in his arms again, pulling her back against his chest. He kissed her unhurt shoulder. Pushing away the impulse to tell her he loved her, he did the thing that was coming to replace that.

He said her name. "Desi."

Looking back at him over her shoulder, she considered him for a long moment. He met her eyes and held them. He thought he saw something there, but he was afraid to think too much. So he just held her eyes.

She turned to face him. "I want to tell you something. After all this, I think it's stupid not to say it. I don't know what it means. I don't understand it completely, but I know it's true. I want to be clear, though, that I don't know what it changes. If it changes anything."

She stopped, and Tig, almost certain what she was going to say—hoping, anyway, really hoping—about wanted to shake her. "Stop thinking so much, Des. Just say it."

She didn't, not right away. But then she said, "I love you. For what it's worth."

What he felt was something bigger than happiness. "It's worth everything." He kissed her gently. "Can I say it?"

"Do you mean it?"

"I meant it the first time I said it."

She smirked. "The first time you said it was the first night we fucked. You were rolling on molly, bound to my bed, and had just come like a truck."

"I remember. I meant it."

A coughing fit overtook her, and she sat up. When it had passed, she looked back at him. "No, you didn't. And no, you can't say it now." She got up and opened a drawer, pulling out a pair of silk pajamas. She put them on.

"Desi."

"Go to sleep, Tig. I'll be back in awhile." She grabbed the sling and left the room.

Fuck! He'd thought he was being romantic, telling her that. How did her saying she loved him end up with him alone in bed?


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 20:  
**"Luna," Smashing Pumpkins

Desi sat on Frank's couch. The room was gloomy, the only illumination coming from the light in the hallway. She was confused, and she was fucking tired of being confused. She had hold of nothing. Just _nothing_. She had no home, no work, no belongings to speak of. She didn't even have her health. They'd told her that her respiratory system would never fully recover. She'd get better, she'd be able to live a "normal" life, but she'd run her last marathon. She'd never be able to reclaim the physical strength and conditioning she'd had. Hell, even the therapy was practically killing her. Walking across Frank's yard was all she could handle. She hated it. She fucking hated it.

Worse than all of it, though? She had no plan, no idea what the next thing was. Her future was just a black void. The last time she was at such loose ends, she was 23 years old, and things had gotten very, very bad. She'd made some decisions then, and from them had made the life she'd just lost. That was more than half her life ago, now.

She felt old. She'd never felt old for even one second until that fire.

Maybe it was time to move on. Start fresh. She'd been in California for more than 15 years, in Sacramento for most of it. Maybe she could get her head to work again if she left this life entirely behind. It was dead, anyway. Burned to the ground. She wouldn't even need a moving van. Fuck, she wouldn't even need a second suitcase. She could stow every remaining possession in the overhead compartment of a 737.

She could buy a one-way ticket anywhere. Europe, maybe. Paris—she knew people there. Nothing to keep her here.

But that wasn't true. Bound to that post, her life in flames around her, she'd faced some facts. She loved the crazy biker in the guest room. She didn't know what to do with that, what it meant. But she'd faced it, and she'd regretted not having the chance to explore it. Well, now the chance was here. A chance for what, though? To move to fucking _Charming_? Be his _old lady_? What kind of life would that be for someone like her? She didn't know what she needed, but she knew it was more than that.

Since she'd been released from the hospital and staying with Frank and Juice, she'd been watching them, how they were together. She'd been with Frank through a lot of drama between those two, but now they were strong and solid and lovely to see. But Frank wasn't like Desi. Frank needed things to be small. She liked small spaces, a small life. She didn't like to be around people. She'd spent a few months living in San Francisco, and it had quite literally almost killed her. Now, she had a home and a husband, a business, and she was happy. She was a truly talented artist, but she was content to take a few trips into the city every year, making arrangements to offer her work at a gallery there. Frank was born and bred in Charming. She was built for Charming. She was happy here.

Desi, on the other hand, needed to have things going on. More than that, she needed to _make_ things go on. She couldn't do that here. But she couldn't replicate what she had. She didn't see the point in rebuilding the club, or even the buildings. Hell, she couldn't if she wanted to. They had been historic buildings. Irreplaceable. Like everything else in her life. Even her furniture had been either antique or custom. One of a kind, almost all of it.

She'd spent decades building a life that was solely and uniquely her own. But now that it was destroyed, she had no place to stand.

She wished she'd died in that goddamn fire.

"Desi."

Fuck. She pulled her head back together and turned to see Tig standing there, looking gorgeous in jeans and his shirt, open and exposing his bare chest. She shouldn't have told him she loved him. It was a complication. But she'd been touched by his tender care of her since he'd been here. His evident distress at what happened to her, his gentleness with her, his concern—she felt it like a balm. It felt like love. And she had regretted the lost chance. It would have been her last thought, if she hadn't been rescued. It seemed unconscionable not to pursue that chance now that she still had it. But pursue it where?

Then he'd lied. She'd told him she loved him, and he'd answered with a lie.

She was so fucking tired of being confused.

"I don't want to talk, Tig. I'm tired and I hurt." Every time she opened her mouth and that rasping squeak came out, she wanted to claw her throat out. It was infuriating. Her lack of voice made her feel weaker than anything else.

He came in and knelt on the floor at her feet. "Don't talk, then, baby. Just listen. I have some things I want to say. Will you listen?"

"Will you lie?"

He picked up her hand and held it. "No. I swear, Des. But I want to start there. I wasn't lying."

She tried to snatch her hand away, but he held on. "Listen. You're right. You're right that it's a thing I say. Girls like to hear it. I've said it thousands of times without meaning it. You're right. But I've had a lot of time to think since the first time I said it to you. I think about you all the time, Des. All the fucking time. And I _was_ already in love with you."

She huffed and turned away. It was ridiculous to think he was in love with her after a few minutes of teasing at a couple of parties and then some drug-enhanced sex. He was either lying or he had no idea what he was talking about.

He got up from the floor and sat next to her on the couch. Using that as an opportunity, she pulled her hand from his and tucked it in the sling with her bad arm. She should get up and walk away, put an end to this farce. But she didn't.

"Des, look." He took her chin and turned her face toward his. "Look. I don't think I've ever been in love before. I was married once, but I didn't feel about her like I feel about you. I don't know how to describe it. It's like—" he stopped, and she could see him casting about for the next thing to say—"I don't know how to say it. But you're in my head all the time. At first, I thought about fucking you, getting my hands on you. But now I just _think_ about you. You're just _in_ here." He hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. "You're with me, all the time."

He moved his hand from her chin to her cheek, spreading his fingers, pushing them into her hair. "I figured out how I felt about you when we were on the bluff in Napa. Then when you took care of me. . ."

His sentence faded away, and he was quiet for a second or two. "Fuck, Desi. I'm not a lovable guy. And I don't deserve it. I'm a guy people are afraid of. Especially women. Even when they want me to fuck them." Again, he got quiet, and this time he turned and leaned back on the sofa, staring off into empty space.

Desi sat and waited, sensing that whatever he had to say, he hadn't said it yet. She didn't know what any of this speech changed, but she listened. She herself had some things to say, but she didn't have the voice to say them.

"They're right to be afraid. I've done some bad shit. I've done bad shit to women. Hurt them." He stopped again.

None of this surprised Desi; she knew how dangerous he was. From the first time she laid eyes on him she understood that he was practically feral. He took what he wanted. He acted on his impulses. It was what attracted her to him in the first place, and it was the reason she'd kept him—and herself—on such a short leash. Losing control to this man was dangerous, at least until she'd been more to him than a fuck.

She hadn't felt like she was at that kind of risk with him for a long time, though.

He started to say something, then stopped. He did that several times, and then, with a shake of his head, he seemed to decide against expressing whatever sentiment had gotten stuck.

"I'm a bad guy, Desi. I've killed people. More than a few. Hurt a hell of a lot more. And I usually enjoy it. But when I'm with you—I don't know. I don't feel like that guy. The way you touch me. They way you are with me—it's like you _see_ somebody different. I do, too, when you look at me. I don't see a monster in your eyes. Nobody's ever looked at me like you do. Nobody's ever touched me like you do. Ever. Nobody. Ever."

He sat up and faced her, pulling her good arm out of the sling so he could take her hand in his. "What I said earlier? It was true. I _did_ mean it the first time I said I love you, when I was high and cuffed. Here's why: I let you cuff me. I _never_ would've let you do that sober. I don't think anyone who's lived the life I have could get off on that. Things have happened—I hated it the second those cuffs touched me. Something in me went dark—and that's usually a very bad thing. And you had a flogger there. I expected you to use it. I was—I was scared. I don't get scared much, but I was. I expected you to hurt me. But you didn't. Instead, you sucked my cock into your mouth and gave me the best fucking orgasm I'd ever had."

He grinned. He had this mischievous grin that wrinkled his nose. It made Desi's heart skip. "Best one up till then, anyway. Had some better since." She smiled. She couldn't help it; that expression was contagious. More than that, his words were really moving her. They surprised her, too. A lot of introspection went into all this. He wasn't a naturally introspective man.

"I loved you then, Des. I did. When you could've hurt me and didn't. I've loved you since."

He chuckled quietly. "Didn't mean to say all that. All I meant to say was, I wasn't lying. I meant it every time I said it to you. I love you."

She squeezed his hand, and he looked into her eyes. "Okay. I believe you. I don't know what it means for us, but I believe you."

Even in the gloom, she could see his bright blue eyes twinkle. He put his arm around her and pulled her close. His lips brushing hers, he whispered, "Me either. You think too much, baby. Just feel it. We'll figure it out." Then he kissed her.

-oOo-

Two weeks later, feeling like she would go completely insane if she didn't have some space to herself, Desi relocated to a hotel and spa at a winery in Lodi. She was strong enough now to be on her own, and she certainly had the financial resources to pay her own way. She couldn't go far; she still had respiratory therapy sessions twice a week at St. Thomas, where she'd transferred her care when she'd left the hospital in Sacramento and come to stay with Frank and Juice. So she checked into the nicest room—a bungalow, actually—in the nicest hotel within 30 minutes of the hospital and got herself some private time.

She'd rented a car, too, and done a little shopping. Now she might need two suitcases to move her whole life elsewhere—if that's what she decided to do. She still had no idea what the future held. There was no next thing. She only knew she was done with Sacramento.

She hadn't told Tig she was thinking about leaving. She needed to, but she didn't know what to say. Whatever was happening between them still confused her. What he wanted, what she wanted—none of it was clear. What was clear was that she was glad to be with him. The unrest she felt about her life was calmed when he was with her.

But she knew that was dangerous. The allure of that calm, when everything else was disrupted, frightened her. If she gave in to it, she could end up trapped in a life that would suffocate her. Or worse.

She just wanted to take the reins of her life back into her own hands. Fuck, she just wanted to _find_ the reins again.

The French doors were open onto her little patio facing the hotel's grounds, and, though the lot was probably at least a hundred feet away and off to the side, she heard Tig's Dyna pulling in. She'd come to be able to recognize the sound of his bike and distinguish it from others. That knowledge seemed intimate, somehow.

He walked through the grounds toward her bungalow, and she stood and watched him come. Fuck, he was pure, dark sex: boots, dark jeans, knife strapped to his thigh, dark shirt, kutte, dark sunglasses, leather and metal jewelry, that wild halo of dark hair.

She was done waiting, and she'd called and told him as much. Now, he walked straight to her and took her face in his hands to kiss her, his tongue pushing into her mouth immediately. He hadn't even taken his sunglasses off. They were in her way, though, so she did, tossing them away, heedless of where they'd landed. She pushed her hands under his kutte and around his back and held him close to her.

Groaning, he took their kiss even deeper, his hands sliding through her hair to hold the back of her head, his tongue stroking hers. She kissed him just as fiercely, her tongue vying with his in her mouth. She pulled back, taking his lower lip in her mouth as she did, drawing it through her teeth, loving the feel of his beard on her lips.

She was breathless but not struggling, She was getting better.

"You sure, doll?" He stroked the ink on the side of her face, his vivid blue eyes staring intently into her hazel ones. "Don't push it. I can wait."

Already unbuttoning his shirt, she laughed. "_I_ can't. I'd say I want to you to make me scream till I'm hoarse, except that bar's still pretty low. But you get the idea." She had his shirt open now and was running her fingers through the soft hair on his chest. He was all man. She scratched her nails over his nipples and heard his breath hitch. "Fuck, Desi," he whispered.

She pushed his shirt and kutte together off his shoulders, and he caught them in his hands as they slid down his arms. Stopping to fold the kutte and hang it over a chair, he came back, now barechested and beautiful, and started opening her top. She was wearing a black wraparound like the one she'd had before, and, as his hands worked the tie at her back, his mouth went to the base of her throat and sucked deeply.

When he had her shirt open, he pushed it off her shoulders and brought his hands back to cup and plump her breasts, kissing down from her throat to take a nipple into his mouth and suckle deeply. Feeling a surge of sensation straight down to her clit, Desi moaned and put her hands in his hair. It had been a long time—months apart, the last couple of weeks together almost every day, but chastely—and Desi needed him to fuck her, to fill her full. To make her feel something good.

He moved to the other nipple and lavished the same attention on it, his hands descending to open her jeans and slide them off her hips. As she stepped out of them, he closed his teeth around her tender flesh and sucked harder, and Desi cried out, pressing her hips tight to him, almost desperate with need, exulting at the feel of his clothed body against her nakedness, the smooth skin of her chest against the soft down of his. "God, Tig! Please!"

As soon as she spoke, he stopped and pulled away, his hands on her hips, standing straight to look into her eyes. Desi, awash in lust, cleared her head and returned his gaze, trying to understand his expression. Curiosity? Confusion? Amusement? Something else? She herself was confused. "What? What's wrong?"

Grinning hugely that mischievous grin, he said, "Nothin' baby. Nothin' at all." She still didn't understand, but then he wrapped his arms around her waist, picking her up and carrying her into the bedroom, and she didn't care.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: **Sincere and enduring thanks to readers and reviewers. Truly. It makes me happy that people are enjoying what I write.

Have I mentioned lately how much I love the Freak Circle? Well, I do. And **Simone Santos** and **MuckyShroom**—they're basically midwifing this story. Seriously. My gratitude is vast.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 21:  
**"Wonderwall," Oasis

The first time Tig had been in Desi's fancy little cabin, a couple of days ago, he'd been stunned that it was part of a hotel. Not like any he'd ever stayed at, that's for sure. Of course, cheap roadside motels were more his speed. This was like a little house—living room, bedroom, little kitchen and a patio with lounge furniture—with maid service and room service, on the grounds of a beautiful winery. Not for the first time, Tig had considered how outclassed he was.

She'd rented a convertible Corvette, sleek black. She did nothing in half measures, not even now. He wasn't sure why she'd rented a car instead of buying or even leasing, or why she'd moved into a hotel instead of looking for a new place, but he hadn't asked her, not yet. He figured she was feeling her way. He was just glad she was letting him be with her. So fucking glad.

They'd spent most of the last two weeks together, mostly at Frank and Juice's place. Juice had been furious when he got back from Vegas, and they'd taken it to the ring. He'd given Tig a fight, too—for the first time, Tig had gotten a little nervous that the shithead was going to best him. He didn't, but Tig decided that maybe it was time to lay off Juice a little. Tig was getting older, and Juice was getting more experienced. More confident, too.

Those weeks with Desi, though—they'd been fantastic. They didn't talk much; they were just together. He'd taken to coming straight out from work and spending the evening and night there. When Juice got back, after their rounds in the ring, he had tolerated Tig's presence. But that was about the time that Desi had started feeling restless, unhappy being a guest in someone else's home. She was getting stronger, too. Her arm, at least, seemed back to normal.

Tig had hesitantly offered his apartment, but she'd refused. He was just as glad, really—not because he didn't want to have her with him in his home, but because his apartment was too shitty for the likes of her. He was perfectly content to stay with her where she was comfortable.

But when she'd moved in here, after the first night, she'd asked him to stay away for a couple of days. That had set him back—he'd been worried that she was pulling away from him again. She'd said she just needed some time to be alone, but he'd still worried. So when she called today, and told him what she wanted, he'd dropped everything as quickly as he could and sped to Lodi.

And now he was carrying her to bed, her beautiful nude body pressed to his bare chest. It had been more than four months since she'd thrown him out of her apartment, almost two months since Raven had tried to kill her. It was time for them to be right together.

She had her hands in his hair as he carried her and was kissing him deeply. The room was unfamiliar to him, and he had only a vague sense that he was heading in the direction of the bed, but he didn't want to pull away, so he hoped for the best and was glad when the first obstacle they hit was the mattress. He put his knee on it and lay down with her, never letting her go, never breaking the kiss.

They'd been naked and in bed together almost every night of the past few weeks, but not like this. He'd been going silently crazy, curled up with her every night, her soft, inked skin against him, but she hadn't been strong enough, hadn't had breath enough, for anything more.

He'd been celibate since the day he came upon the ruin of her buildings—before that, even. Except for the times he'd been inside, it was the longest stretch he'd ever gone without sex, and he'd spent almost all of it with the woman he wanted above all others. Now that his wait for her was over, he was feeling a little out of control. He wanted to linger over her, touch all of her, worship her.

But he also wanted to drive into her and fuck her with abandon. And the way she was responding to him, her hands knotted in his hair, her tongue in his mouth, now her leg coming up and wrapping around his hip so she could thrust her bare pussy against his clad cock—and she'd _begged_. Jesus Christ. She'd said "please." He'd never heard that word come out of her mouth before, and it was unbelievably hot. He growled and, with a quick jerk of his hands on her hips, pushed her farther onto the bed.

Fuck first, linger later.

He leaned to the side, bringing his weight off of her so that he could open his jeans and pull his cock free. Kissing her again, unwilling to lose that contact, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a condom.

Desi pulled it from his hands and opened it, still kissing him deeply, moaning almost frantically into his mouth. Without looking, she rolled the condom onto his cock and then pulled him by it between her legs, shifting him on top of her and guiding him into her. She was wet and searing hot, and when he plunged into her with an earthy grunt, she arched her back and pulled her knees up, her hands reaching back and grabbing the waistband of his jeans.

He tore his mouth away and breathed deep as he started slamming into her. Fuck, she felt so good, her muscles milking him, her body writhing underneath him. She was gasping, though, and he heard the beginnings of a wheeze. He stopped and looked down. "Hey—you okay?"

"Fuck it; don't stop," she gasped. But he was worried.

"Desi—"

In response, she drove her hips up against him, sending him deep and making him groan heavily. "Don't. Fucking. _Stop_." She lifted her head and bit his nipple hard.

"Ah!" He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her off. She grinned up at him and snapped her teeth together. Then she shifted a leg so that her foot was wedged against his hip and flipped them over. It wasn't the first time she'd done that move, but he didn't know how she made it work. He probably had 50 or 60 pounds on her, but she flipped them without his help. She was definitely getting some strength back.

Now she was on top and riding him hard, lifting up, slamming down, grinding, twisting. He could feel all of her around him, her muscles flexing and squeezing rhythmically. For a minute, he just lay back and let the sensations roll over him—the feel of her strong, wet pussy, the sight of her tattooed body undulating on him, her head tossed back and her eyes closed, the smell of their sex. She grabbed her breasts in her own hands and worked them, her fingers catching her nipples between them. He wanted that. He reached up and replaced her hands with his, pulling and pinching until she was shaking, her movements on him becoming erratic.

The wheeze was getting worse, and he tried to stop her and ask again. He moved his hands to her hips and gripped, trying to slow her. "Desi, wait—"

But she was having none of it. She leaned over him, her hands on his chest, gripping his pecs. She was grinding hard now, and he could feel the beautiful touch of her clit just above his cock, rolling against him with the flexing of her hips. Her eyes were sparkling with intensity. He closed his eyes as he felt the deep, familiar clench at the base of his cock, the mounting ecstasy. Suddenly she froze, and, worried, he looked to make sure she was okay.

She was staring down, her expression incomprehensible to him. Her voice rough with strain, she said, "Tell me you love me."

Shocked, he didn't say anything at first. She flexed once, hard, making him arch up into her. He was so close. He could be, anyway, if he let himself. "Tell me."

"I love you."

Her expression didn't change. She curled her hands into the hair on his chest and pulled sharply. It hurt, and he gasped. "Ah!"

"Mean it." It was a demand, a challenge, a plea.

He released her hips and put his hands over hers, easing them loose from his chest hair. He'd thought she believed him now. He didn't understand why she needed this, but he knew she did. He kissed each hand and held them in his. "Desi. I love you, baby. You changed everything."

For another second or two, she just stared down at him, panting, the sound of her breath starting to really concern him. Then she lay on his chest, tucking her head against his neck, and started gyrating on him, her hips working madly until she was grunting and he was struggling to wait for her.

He wasn't going to be able to unless he took over. He flipped them back and caught her leg by the knee, hooking it over his arm and pushing it as far forward as he could, until her thigh was pressed along her chest, pinning her arm to the bed.

Then he fucked her as hard and fast as he could. She came with gusto, screaming hoarsely. When she was done, with an overpowering sense of relief, he let himself go, slamming deep into her and holding, shouting, his head thrown back.

He started to relax on top of her, but she sounded bad, and he fell instead to her side, gasping himself. She rolled and sat up immediately, taking on the posture that was now familiar to him as she struggled to breathe normally again.

She hadn't been ready for this.

After he discarded the condom and closed his jeans, he reached over and put his hand on her back. He knew she didn't want fuss, so he did no more than that, letting her know he was worried, but leaving her to deal with it. Eventually, her breathing quieted, and she got up and left the room. He said nothing, just watched her go, arranging the pillows under his head and back. She returned in a minute with a bottle of water, taking a long drink and then handing it to him. He took a smaller drink and handed it back.

She got into bed with him, and he pulled her close, settling her head on his chest. "Too soon."

He felt her shaking her head. "No, it's not. It's just going to take some time to get better. I get much worse than that at therapy, and no one has a heart attack about it." She tipped her head up, and he looked down to meet her eyes. She was smiling. "And we're not done, by the way. Not by a long shot. I just need a few minutes."

He chuckled. Even Desi's own body couldn't tell her what she could or could not do.

As they lay together quietly, Tig let his mind wander. He looked around the room. It was beautiful, with lush modern furniture and bright colors. It suited Desi. But it was a hotel, so it was generic, too. He wondered again why she'd chosen to move here. As far as he knew, she'd not put any thought into buying a new place, or really anything about where she'd live or what she'd do next.

The rental car was the weirdest thing she'd done, he thought. Why a short-term rental? She needed a car, the insurance payouts had happened, so why not buy a car? It made him uneasy, but he didn't know why.

She'd picked up his hand and was winding her fingers around his, playing with his rings. He watched her do it, his heart clenching with love and something else—affection, maybe. He kissed her head. "You give any thought to looking for a new place?"

Her hand stopped. She was quiet for a moment. "No." She didn't say anything more.

"It's been a while, Des. The insurance shit is all done. Don't you want to get settled again?"

She sat up and turned to face him, and his uneasiness increased to anxiety. He didn't know why, but it did. He didn't like the look on her face, either.

"I need to talk to you about all that, Tig." Fuck. What? His heart was pounding.

He sat up straighter, leaning against the headboard. "So talk."

"I'm not ready to look for a place because I don't know where that place should be."

Wait. Was she wondering if she should move to Charming? Did she want—no. That didn't make sense. Even if she were the kind of woman who'd agree to live the club life, they hadn't been together near long enough for her to make that kind of decision. Unless the fire had really changed her outlook. Maybe it had.

"Baby, if you're saying you want to move to Charming, I'm with you. We could get a place." He couldn't believe that statement had just passed his lips, but as he said it, he knew it was true. She was what he wanted. He'd give her his crow if she'd take it.

She smiled sadly, and he realized that wasn't what she'd been saying. Now he felt a little angry, hating that he'd laid something like that out on the table.

"No. I don't think that's what I want. That's the problem. I don't know what I want. I can't see a way to go. I can't make a plan. I don't know how to be without one. I feel lost. I know I don't want to go back to Sacramento, though."

She was still holding his hand; she looked down at it now. "I think I want to leave California. I don't know."

Frozen, he let that sink in for a second. Then he pulled his hand from her grasp and got out of the bed. He was relieved he had his jeans on—he would have fucking hated to be naked right now, considering how exposed he felt already. He'd just asked her to move in with him, and she'd answered by saying she was thinking about _leaving the fucking state_.

This was not a position Tig had found himself in before, and he didn't know what to do. He was hurt. He was pissed. He wanted to yell, to break things. But she hadn't said she was leaving. What she'd really said was she was lost. If he had a meltdown right now, he could push her out of his life for good.

He sort of paced around the room, thinking, trying to order his emotional tumult. Thinking before acting was not something he was good at or even tried to do that often. But he needed to do the right thing here, bring her close, not push her away. Over these last weeks, he'd come to see that Desi was struggling with more than her breath. She had led an organized, tightly controlled life, and that had all burned away. Since then, she'd been erratic with him, sometimes quiet and pliant, other times rigid and demanding. Even just now, as they'd fucked—she'd quietly let him carry her to bed, then she'd topped him, then she'd let him take over. Following her lead was confusing these days. She really was lost.

"Desi. I don't want you to go." He fought, and managed, to keep his voice even.

"I know. But I don't know what to do with myself here." She looked into his eyes. He got the sense that she was searching for something, but if it was answers, he didn't have any. He knew a club life was not for her. Too small, too chaotic.

"Where would you go?"

She looked away from him, out the window onto the hotel grounds. "I don't know. Paris, maybe. I have friends there." His stomach coiled into a knot. Jesus motherfucking Christ. _Europe_?

He was getting too worked up to think clearly. This fucking hurt. And he didn't like the fear he felt. It was bad enough when she hadn't wanted to see him but had been less than an hour away. There'd been a chance—and he'd had that chance, was having it right now. But Europe? That would be her leaving his life for good.

Before he just lost it, he took a risk. "Not sure how running from your trouble solves it."

She jerked her head around to face him, her brow furrowed. "I'm not running." She was angry. Good.

This could be a blowout, and it could end them—or he could convince her to stay. Either way, he decided to push the point. He needed a fight now, anyway, to deal with his churning blood. They'd never really fought before; Desi had always been too calm to call their confrontations fights. Not these days.

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Yeah, you are. Running from Raven and what he did. Giving him the win."

She stood and took a step toward him, then stopped. "Fuck you."

He shook his head. "Not much of a comeback, especially for you." He walked toward her, his arms still crossed. "You must know I'm right."

"You need to go."

"No, doll. I don't. _You_ need to face some facts."

She laughed, contempt dripping from the sound. "And you think you're the one to make me face them? Because you're so clearheaded? _Fuck_. _You_. I want you out." Still naked, she strode past him, her head high. He reached out and grabbed her, pulling her against his body.

His face hovering inches from hers, he whispered, "You're trying to run now, too. Away from me."

He felt her knee coming up and caught it in one hand before it could connect with its target. He kept hold of it; now he had a hand wrapped around her leg and the other around her opposite arm, all but disabling her. She fought his hold as well as she could for a few seconds, and then, at long, long last, Desi just lost her mind.

She swung with her free hand—thankfully not her dominant hand, but she didn't hit him with fist or palm. She curled her fingers in and caught him across the cheek with her nails. The sting and scrape were sharp, and he felt blood start to ooze, but he tried not to react. This is what he'd meant to provoke. She came in again, and he shifted his hold on her, keeping her leg trapped but wrapping his other arm around her back and pulling her tight to his chest. Now both arms were free, but she was too close to do much more than pull at his hair. Which she was doing, with vigor and both hands.

"Let me go! Let me go! Fuck you, motherfucker, let me go!" She was screaming past the point that her still-damaged throat could sustain, and every other syllable came out as a nearly silent burst of air, but he understood. He held on.

She fought until she was wet with sweat and gasping alarmingly. He didn't release his hold at all, even when she started to wheeze and gulp, until she calmed down. When she did, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. He sat down and pulled her onto his lap. He still hadn't said anything; he kept quiet now, as he held her while she fought to breathe. He was worried, and he felt guilty, but he'd needed to do something to shake her up.

Finally, her breathing settled, and so did she, resting against his chest. With a lingering kiss to her head, he changed his hold on her to an embrace. She asked, "Why did you do that?" Her voice was hoarse and soft.

One hand coming up to thread into her hair and cradle her head, he whispered. "I needed to get in there. I couldn't think of anything else to do."

"You can't just force me to stay."

"I don't want to. But I don't want to lose you because you're scared."

She pushed off his chest and looked at him. She looked haggard, and he felt remorse. "I'm not scared. I'm confused."

"And that's what scares you." He'd never done anything like this, tried to finesse a response out of someone, and he wasn't that good at reading people. He felt like he was on a high wire.

"Fuck. Tig, what are you doing?"

"I don't know. I'm trying—" he stopped, trying to figure out how to explain. He didn't have words like that. "I'm just trying."

Her hands moved to his chest, and she slid her fingers through the hair that covered it. She did that a lot. Not all women liked a hairy man, but Desi clearly did. He found that odd, since she professed a preference for women. She was a study in contrasts. Fine with him. He closed his eyes and focused on the sensation of her gentle caress, his anxiety finally receding.

Then he felt fingers on his injured cheek as she traced the scratches she'd made. She leaned in and kissed them. Her touch stung, but he was no less glad of it. "I'm sorry."

He traced the vine on her face. "It's okay, baby. I pissed you off."

She laughed and rested her head on his shoulder. "You really did." He relaxed entirely—something good was happening here. He could feel it. Her hand slid over his belly and around his side, holding him close. "I don't know what to do." She whispered it.

"You don't have to, Des. I told you before. We'll figure it out. _You'll_ figure it out."

"I get into trouble when my life is that loose."

That seemed important. "What do you mean?"

She was quiet for a long time. Minutes. Finally, she sat back up and looked at him again. "I really do love you."

She wasn't going to answer his question, and he decided to let it slide. He had secrets, too. And there were more important things going on here. "And I really do love you."

"I'm not Frank. I can't do a life like hers. I just can't. I'll go nuts."

"Not asking you to, Des."

"What are you asking for, then? That's what all this is about, right? You wanting something? What do you want?"

He thought about that for a few seconds before he answered. What did he want? He wanted something permanent, a commitment. But he didn't know what that would be like, and he didn't think Desi was ready for something like that. Fuck, half an hour ago, she was thinking about leaving the country, and she might still be. "Just give me a chance. All I'm askin'."

She framed his face with her hands and peered into his eyes. She was looking for something, but he didn't know what. He tried to send love back. Finally, she said, "Okay. I don't know what that means, but okay."

"I keep saying it, baby. We'll figure it out. Trust me." He pulled her close and kissed her.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: **So, **MuckyShroom** and I are collaborating again. This time, we're taking Jax and Tara for a ride on the wild side. If you're interested, check out "Pandora's Box" on her FF profile. Actually, check out all of her stuff, if you haven't already—she's wicked talented and funny.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 22:  
**"I'll Stand By You," The Pretenders

_Trust me_. Desi mulled the words as Tig kissed her. That was the crux of the thing, wasn't it? Could she trust him? She didn't know. She didn't trust herself _to_ know. She'd trusted Toad when everything inside her said he was wrong. And now she had nothing.

"Desi."

Something about the way Tig said her name always touched her heart. Those two syllables seemed more real, moved her more, than when he told her he loved her. She believed him, but something in her resisted the words. They felt awkward on her own tongue, even though they were true. She did love him.

And still she wondered: so what?

"Des, where are you?" His lips moved lightly over hers as he spoke, and she came back to the moment. She was sitting on his lap, her arms around him. One of his hands cupped her ass possessively; the other curled around her side. She should feel constrained, but instead she felt enveloped.

"Sorry. I'm here." She drew her tongue over his lower lip and felt his grip around her constrict.

"Good. Stay with me, Des." He was staring at her with those beautiful blue eyes. She got the sense that he meant more than simply to keep her attention in the moment. But she didn't pursue the thought; his hand moved from her side, his fingers tracing gently, but not too lightly, up her spine, until he held her head, and he pressed his lips to hers again, this time forcefully, his tongue filling her mouth.

Everything about this man turned her on: the coarse texture of his beard against her face, the rough slide of his calloused hands on her skin. His smell, leather and musk. The breadth and firmness of his chest. The sharp sandpaper of his voice. Those damn bright eyes. His wildness, most of all. He was a potent concoction of ferocity and gentleness that defied her understanding and utterly compelled her.

She crossed her arms behind his head and kissed him back with force to match his own, shifting on his lap as she did so until she was straddling him, her legs around his hips, their chests so tight together she could feel his heartbeat.

With a growl, he rolled and laid her on the bed, then stood back. As she watched him finally strip naked, she scooted all the way on the bed, lying on the pillows. For a moment, he stood still, his eyes raking over her. She looked her fill, too, lingering over his prodigious erection. She lifted her gaze to his face and saw him grinning. He winked at her, and she grinned back, spreading her legs and crooking her finger at him.

He'd tried to force something out of her today—he _had_ forced something out of her. He'd made her lose her cool. He'd said he was trying to get to her, but what did he want? What was she supposed to do while she "figured it out"? Sit on her ass and wait?

"Desi." He was looming over her now, lying between her legs, his hands holding up his weight on either side of her head. She hadn't even noticed him come onto the bed. "Where the hell are you going?"

He started to shift to the side, but she grabbed his arms and held him where he was. "No. I want you here." She pushed her hands into the crooks of his elbows to bring him closer. When he did, his cock heavy on her clit, she arched up and squirmed on him, making them both moan. "I'm thinking about what just happened here. I don't understand what you want from me."

He brushed her nose with his. "I told you, baby. I want a chance, that's all."

"But a chance for what?"

He sighed and started to roll off her again, but again she held him. "Stay." He did.

"You really want to talk about this right now? Like this?" He pushed his cock against her, and she shivered.

She nodded. Yes. She wanted him close, wanted to feel him touching her everywhere, but she needed to understand something—anything. "I need to."

Smiling, he nodded, then bent his head and sucked her earlobe into his mouth. He released it and kissed her neck just below. Speaking with his mouth on her skin, he said, "Okay, Des. I want a chance for us." She felt his tongue on her, making silky circles on her skin. "I want to know if we have something real, that can last." Now she felt his teeth nipping at the same spot. She whimpered and laced her fingers in his hair.

"What—you want me to be your old lady?"

His breath was warm as he laughed into the crook of her shoulder. "Would that be so bad?"

"Fuck, Tig. I told you I can't live like Frank." He had shifted slightly to the side and was moving down now, his hands moving up, sliding up her sides. His hands and mouth reached her breasts at the same time.

His mouth hovering just above her breast so that his breath made her delicate skin grow tight, her nipple swelling, he said, "So? I can't live like Juice. That wholesome country bullshit? No way. We can figure out the life we want."

He sucked her nipple, sharply, through bared teeth, and she gasped with the intense pleasure of his mouth on her, suckling now like a babe. She was done talking for now. "Fuck it. Just suck me like that and just fuck it."

Still sucking, he laughed around her breast, and she felt his hand between her legs. She surged up, encouraging him, and he slid three fingers into her, grinding the heel of his calloused hand against her clit. She could feel her breathing beginning to strain, but she ignored it and let herself be absorbed into the passion of Tig's touch.

Pumping his fingers into her, rubbing firm circles on her clit, he released her breast, and she moaned her disappointment. She opened her eyes, still writhing with his hand, to see him staring at her chest. He pushed his fingers deep and flexed them inside her, hitting the perfect spot to make her whine and bite her lip. He raised his eyes to hers.

"I love your body. I love how beautiful and fucking fascinating you are. I see your ink in my head all the time. Especially your tits. They are so perfect. He bent his head to the nipple he'd neglected and flicked his tongue back and forth over it, mimicking the movement of his fingers inside her.

She was right there, her orgasm converging and moving in fast. "God, Tig, oh, now!" She lifted her hips off the bed, trying to get his hand even deeper.

But then he stopped. He took his hand away. And he grinned down at her. "Not yet, baby."

"Oh, you ass." She was pissed. She could control her orgasm when she was focused on that, but she hadn't been. She really, really hadn't been. And she didn't like the idea of somebody _else_ withholding it.

"Aw, now. Come on. Just because we don't have new toys yet doesn't mean we can't play."

Fuck him. She moved her hand between her legs, intent on dealing with it herself then, but he caught her by the wrist and pulled her hand over her head. As soon as she moved the other, he did the same with that one. The muscle in her wounded shoulder pulled a little, stiffly but not painfully.

She fought his hold. "No, Tig. I don't want this."

He was still fucking grinning. She was going to bite his goddamn lips off. "What was your safe word again? Tulsa, right?"

She glared at him. She could say it. She was sure he'd back right off. But her heart was racing, her breasts still ached from the sharp pleasure of his tongue and teeth, and her pussy was fucking throbbing. She was so turned on she was woozy. She struggled against his grip but didn't say anything, not yet. She'd make him pay for this shit, though, no mistake.

He nodded. "That's what I thought." Keeping a firm grip on her wrists, he brought her hands to her sides and attended to her breasts again, licking, sucking and biting until she was moaning almost constantly, the sound taking on that awful fucking wheeze at the end. He heard it and looked up at her, but she said nothing, trying to control her breathing and get control of her response to what he was doing—but that horse had fled the barn.

His grip on her wrists was tight enough that her hands were beginning to tingle. She tried to move them, but he just squeezed a little harder. Again she considered using her word, and again she decided to wait. He moved lower, sucking the skin over her ribs, laving her navel, tracing her dragon's tail with his tongue, biting her belly, until he reached her clit. She tried to hold still, but she could feel his breath on her, and she lifted her hips to his face. He backed off, keeping the same distance. Asshole.

Finally, he lowered his mouth and she felt the hot wet of his lips and tongue on her. She cried out and flexed on his face, not even giving him a chance to latch on, loving the scratch of his beard against this most sensitive, intimate place. She focused all her will on getting there before he backed away again.

And again, she just missed it, and he pulled away, coming up onto his knees between her legs. He'd been paying too much attention. He could fucking tell exactly when he could stop it but she would be at maximum need. She might well castrate him for this. At the thought, she looked at his cock. Its tip was wet and swollen. He was in need, too.

"Tell me what you want, Des."

Fuck that. She hadn't said her safe word, but she'd be damned if she'd beg.

He lay back down, his lips hovering over her again. "Tell me." He sucked her clit into his mouth and she arched like she'd been shocked. She could feel her airway constricting; she ignored it. She knew that she had about twice the capacity she felt like she had. She needed to stay calm about it.

He pulled away—fuck!—and blew on her, calming her body down. Fuck, fuck, fuck! "What do you want, baby?" As soon as she was still, he went back in, nibbling now until she was writhing, then backing off when she was close. "Come on, Des. You can do it. Wouldn't even be the first time."

She had no idea what that meant. "Fuck you." Her clit was throbbing in time with her pulse. This was way too fucking intense. But she was too far gone now to even consider using her word.

"Is that what you want? You wanna fuck me?" He flicked the point of his tongue, firmly, just once, directly over the nub of her clit, and with that brief, but electrically intense sensation, she caved.

"Yes! Fuck me, you asshole! Make me come! Please!"

With a growl, Tig released her hands and grabbed her ass, settling his face firmly on her pussy, sucking her hard until she screamed hoarsely, almost silently, the strain of all this having killed her fragile voice. She curled over his head, her hands in his hair, as she spasmed over and over.

She was gasping and straining for air; she was dizzy and felt close to hallucinating, but she wasn't done. She needed more. She grabbed his arms, pulling him up onto her. When they were chest to chest, but before he got his weight settled, she flipped him over and impaled herself on his cock, riding him hard as soon as she landed.

He shouted and then arched up with a groan. "Oh, fuck. Jesus, Desi!" She rode him as hard and fast as she could make her body move. He was grunting over and over; the sexy sound, and the knowledge that it was her making him do it, drove her even faster. She felt his hands on her hips, trying to restrain her, but she needed to go. He tried to flip her back, but she held his shoulder down.

"No. Fuck! Des, stop! Ah, God. Desi—condom! Oh, shit." She knew he was speaking, but his words were far away. She'd all but stopped breathing. She'd never done erotic asphyxiation play, but a thought glanced off her brain that she was experiencing it now. "Shit! Desi, baby, you gotta—." And then he was quiet, sitting up, his eyes shut tight, his whole body rigid, his hands clutching her hips so hard she knew she'd be bruised. His cock shifted in her as he sat up, and she went off again.

And then everything went dark.

-oOo-

When she came to, she was lying on her side along the edge of the bed, and Tig was squatting on the floor next to her. Her breathing was back to normal, but fuck, her throat hurt.

He met her open eyes with a worried smile. "Hey, doll. You scared the shit outta me. You okay?"

She nodded. He took a glass of water from the nightstand and offered it to her. She sat up and drank it all. Okay. Better.

"I'm okay." She had some voice left, anyway.

He sat next to her. "Fuck, Des. That didn't go like I thought it would. Are you mad?"

She was—but she had no right to be. She had her safe word. He'd even reminded her of it. She chose not to use it. She was mad, yes, but at herself. She'd let him control her completely. She'd let him make her beg. What the hell was wrong with her?

She'd become a mystery to herself. "Not at you, no. I'm freaked out, though. I don't do freaked out, so I don't know what to do with how I feel right now. You're probably better off away from me."

"Uh-uh. No way, baby. You got something you need to take out on me, go for it, but I'm with you. Period. And when you're ready, we need to talk."

She didn't want him to go; she just didn't want to lash out either, and she didn't trust herself to stay cool right now. What she really wanted was him to hold her. She smiled and put a gentle hand on his hurt cheek. They hadn't yet done anything about that, and blood had crusted in the scratches. "We should clean you up."

He held her hand in his. "Don't worry about it—I'm fine. Here, come be with me." As if he'd read her mind, he moved up to rest against the headboard and pulled her with him, tucking her under his arm.

Yeah, that's what she wanted. She didn't even recognize herself, but she relaxed into his embrace and felt safe. She couldn't get up the energy to be worried about it.

They sat quietly, entwined together, as dusk took over the room. Eventually, Tig leaned over and turned on a light. "Des, I think I need to run an errand."

She looked up at him. "What do you mean? If you're hungry, let's order room service."

He smiled and traced her vine. "No, baby. I need to go to the pharmacy."

Confused, she wrinkled her brow at him but didn't say anything. "You don't remember, do ya? You didn't give me a chance to get a condom, Des. And I couldn't hold off. It's been like 20 years since I've been in without one, and you felt _so fucking good_. I came inside you. I need to get you that morning-after pill."

Shit. How did she not remember that? And how in hell did _Tig_ become the responsible one? "Uh, fuck. Okay. I don't . . . sorry." She didn't even know what to say. She was freaking the shit out of herself just about daily.

"Don't be, baby. It was fantastic. Jesus. We just need to handle it, just in case. Right?"

Oh, yeah. So right. "Definitely. Sorry, though. I don't know what was wrong with me."

Laughing, he pulled her closer and kissed her forehead. "Well, since you passed out right after, I think you were delirious from lack of air."

They were quiet again, and Desi was starting to drowse when Tig asked, "Des, you ever thought about going on the Pill or something?"

She stirred and refocused. "No. Why?"

"That really did feel incredible. I'd love to be inside you like that every time."

She shook her head. She didn't see that happening. "No, Tig."

He shifted and faced her directly. "Why not?" He looked like he might pout. It was cute, but not persuasive.

"We're not exclusive." She smiled and put her hand on his cock; it stirred at her touch. "I don't know where else this thing's been.

He took her hand in his and moved it to his belly. "I haven't been with anybody but you since before I found you at Juice's. If you want to be exclusive, we're exclusive."

Shit. She sat up. "I don't need that from you. And I don't think I can give it to you."

She felt and heard him take a slow, deep breath and she turned to see his face. His eyes were closed. She'd hurt him. How? They'd talked about this.

Without opening his eyes, he asked, "Why not?"

"Tig, we've had this talk. I need something you can't give me. You're too dominant."

Now his eyes were open and boring into hers. "You love me, right? How can you not care if I fuck other women?"

She'd thought he understood this part. She'd thought it was something they had in common. "Sex and love are two different things—you _know_ that. It's the same for you. Isn't it? I'd be jealous if you love somebody else, but not if you fuck somebody else. Fucking is just play."

"What we do isn't play, Des. It's not."

"That's what you called it earlier."

"No—it's different, and you fucking know it." He got out of bed and yanked his jeans on.

It was definitely different. Different enough to set her off balance. "You're right. But that's because there's love in it. Do you fuck other women like you fuck me?"

"'Course not."

"Then why are you making a fuss? You're probably the only man alive who's pissed off because his woman is okay with him fucking other women. Jesus, Tig!"

He raked his hands through his hair. He was shockingly agitated about this, and for the life of her, Desi couldn't understand why. She felt like she should know. This is something she should have been able to figure out.

"Fuck. I know it's crazy. But it's making me crazy. I can't stand the thought of somebody else making you come. Watching you when it happens, knowing they made it happen. That's mine. Desi, I need that to be mine."

After everything, was this going to be the thing that really ended them? Could she do without the play? Dominating is how she came down from the stress of her life. She didn't have a life now, but somehow, eventually, she would. And she'd need that release. Tig would never be her bottom, not in any kind of reliable way. And it took a lot of negotiation to get him there. No. She couldn't do without it.

"Tig. Love, that's a deal breaker for me. I need to fuck women sometimes." She whispered it, but not because her voice was weak.

"_Goddamn it_!" He dropped into an armchair in the corner of the room and put his head in his hands. She got up and started to get dressed, her heart like a lead weight in her chest. Just like that, they were over.

She was tying the tie on her top when he looked up and said, "Des, wait. How about this—stuff like we did with your friend that time, would that be enough?"

It took a second before she understood that he was talking about their bondage threesome with Samantha. It took another second before she understood that he was asking if he could be there, participate in her play with other people. She considered that. It would limit her pool of players to women who were open to mixed sex play, but being away from Sacramento was limiting her pool already. She'd need another pool. Would his presence compromise the satisfaction she needed from that play? A thought occurred to her—it needn't compromise anything. In fact, it could enhance that satisfaction.

"So you're asking if my dom play could always include you, if that would be enough for me?"

He looked hopeful. "Yeah."

"And those would be the only times you fucked anybody else, too?" Parity here was crucial.

"Yeah."

"And I'm in charge—no negotiation?"

Now he was grinning. "As long as you're not tying me down or shoving things up my ass, yeah."

He was missing the smaller point—she didn't need him to be submissive, she just needed him not to be dominant—but he had the larger one, that she would control the play. It was worth a try. Better than watching him walk away again. Definitely better than that. "Okay. Let's try that. We'll need to talk about parameters, come to some agreements. But let's try."

He got up, crossed the room, and kissed her breathless again.

-oOo-

A few nights later, they were relaxing in the living room of her bungalow suite. They'd settled in during the intervening days to something like domesticity. It was simply understood that Tig was staying with her. He went off and did what he did during the day, or the night, or whenever he got called away; she maintained a studied lack of interest in his work. They hadn't yet talked about how they would talk about what he did. She knew enough to know that conversation would be complicated.

She still spent her time alone adrift. She was turning into a lady of leisure or something, and it vexed her. What she'd mostly done so far is shop. She did have a wardrobe to replace, but she'd never been a recreational shopper, and it unsettled her to spend so much time with bags hanging from her arms.

But she was feeling slightly calmer. The urge to get moving, find a new place, start over was ebbing a little. She knew it was her attachment to Tig that was settling her down. That itself made her nervous—she didn't want to get lured into stasis, but at the moment the calm was giving her head some room to think. She was finally starting to feel like she would, in fact, "figure it out," as he kept saying.

And in the meantime, she loved being with him in this quiet, homey way.

They'd finished a room service dinner, and the cart had just been removed. Tig was stretched out on the sofa, leaning against one arm. Desi was lying on him, and they were watching a movie on the big TV on the wall. Tig got a kick out of her love of bloody, violent movies, and they were watching Reservoir Dogs, which he had never seen.

Desi had seen it many times, and her mind drifted a little. She felt snug and warm, lying on Tig like this. He had one arm around her waist, the other resting on the back of the sofa. She pulled that one down onto her as well, and, clearly distracted, he kissed her head and gave her a squeeze. He was involved in the movie. She'd known he'd like it.

She played with the leather cuff around his wrist. She loved his jewelry. It didn't make sense, really, but she found all his accessorizing to be exceedingly masculine, especially the cuffs. She'd noticed early on that each one had been marked with a letter—a "D" on his left wrist, and a "T" on his right. She traced the "T" on the cuff in her hand. She'd never asked about it; they'd only recently been close enough for her to feel like she had a right to ask. She decided to do so now.

"Hey, love. What do the letters stand for?" He went stiff, and she turned to see him staring at her—the look on his face told her she'd asked a much more troubling question than she'd realized. He yanked his arm away from her.

Her curiosity was piqued, but so was her concern, so she said no more. The vibe in the room had changed drastically. After a minute or so, he grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. Then he pushed her up and moved out from under her so that he could sit straight on the sofa.

"Tig, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"My daughter's name. Dawn. Dawn Trager."

She knew he'd been married, but he'd never told her he had a kid. "I didn't know you had a daughter."

"Two. Dawn and Fawn." He was staring straight ahead, through the French doors to the patio. His voice with flat, entirely without affect.

"Are they with their mom?"

He laughed harshly. "Not since they were old enough to be on their own. I don't know where Fawn is. She cut me out—more than three years ago, now. Dawn—" He stopped and simply stared out the door.

She was afraid to ask, but she needed to. If he shut her down, that was one thing, but she had to let him know she was interested, she cared. "Where's Dawn, love?"

"Dead."

She took his hand; it lay slack in hers. "Oh, Tig. I'm so sorry."

He pulled his hand free. "They threw her in a hole, doused her with gasoline, and lit her on fire. They chained me and made me watch. She screamed for me until she couldn't scream anymore." He was holding his hands as if they were shackled in front of him, his fingers curled into rigid fists.

Desi's brain would not process what he'd said. The only thought that bounced around in there at first was relief that the movie had not progressed to the scene where Mr. Blonde douses the cop hostage with gasoline.

Even after what Raven had done, even after the things she'd experienced in her life, she couldn't conceive of the kind of evil that would do such a thing. To be burned alive was horrible; she had some special insight into that now. But to put a father in chains and force him to watch it happen to his child? "Oh, love. Oh, my love." She didn't know what else to say.

And she'd restrained him their first night together. He'd _let_ her. All at once, everything between them took on another dimension, a deeper one.

"It was my fault. I killed his daughter. I didn't mean to, but I did it." His voice was still flat, but she saw trails of tears running unimpeded down his cheeks. "And then he did that thing to Dawnie." His voice finally broke. "I did it. It was me. I killed her."

He'd never stopped staring out the door. Desi's heart was rent apart. She moved closer to him and put her hand on his face. He jerked away as if her touch caused him pain, but she didn't pull back. "Tig. I love you." Paltry words, but all she had.

She stayed still, her thumb caressing his cheek, her hand on his arm. Finally, he turned to her, his blue eyes so sad and haunted that she almost pulled back, overwhelmed. But she didn't. She held.

"Desi?" There was a plea in the way he said her name now.

"Love." She pulled him to her. He came without resisting, dropping his head to her shoulder and wrapping her tightly in his arms. At first he simply held her, and she him. But then he started to sob in earnest. She let him, running her fingers through his hair, rocking him a little. When he was finally quiet, he stayed resting on her shoulder.

That night, Tig slept with his head on Desi's chest.


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: **So, if you were wondering why Toad was helping Raven . . .

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 23:  
**"Mind Riot," Soundgarden

"Tig—I need a minute."

Tig rolled out from under the little Ford Focus. Juice was looming over him. "S'up?"

The younger Son looked around a little nervously. Tig was growing accustomed to Juice, gaining a modicum of grudging respect for the kid, but he could still be a squirrely little asshole. "We need to talk about Desi's problem."

Raven. Now he understood the squirrely. They were working that one off the books. "Yeah, okay. Gimme a sec. Meet me at the picnic tables." Juice nodded and walked off. Tig got his tools and shit together enough for a break and followed him a few minutes later.

"What you got, brother?" Tig had gone to Juice very shortly after Juice had returned from Vegas. Tig was good at scaring people, hurting them, exacting revenge. But he sucked at flushing them out. He'd never seen Juice fail at finding somebody. Tig didn't understand computers at all—for all he knew they might as well be magic, but if so, Juice was a wizard. And he also had a personal investment in Desi, so Tig knew he'd be willing to help and keep it quiet, at least for now. But it had been weeks and still no Raven.

"Nothin', man. That's the thing. All I had was Raven Gale, bouncer. Not much to go on, but I pulled some leads together. They've all died out. He is in the fucking wind. A ghost. Doesn't make sense. Some dumbshit douchebag like him should've been easy to find."

"Fuck. Desi needs this, brother." She really did. He was convinced that dealing with Raven would help her get her head on straight. As good as things were, he felt like she was still hovering at the gate, ready to run. Raven, what he did, still had power over her. Tig needed to give her this. He had no intention of letting her kill him herself. You don't come back from killing somebody, and Tig didn't want her to have to carry that around. But he wanted her to know Raven had been dealt with.

"I know. But I got nowhere else to look. Unless . . ." his thought died out, but Tig was on it.

"Toad." Tig had gone to Toad early on, to ask him some questions. He'd started off expressing remorse and concern for Desi, but had grown guarded and belligerent as Tig pressed him for help. Tig had left with nothing. It galled him, and he owed Toad at least a memorable beating for bringing Raven into Desi's life. But Desi wouldn't want Toad hurt. Toad was also good friends with Frank _and_ with Hap. Dealing with him had its own complications, and Tig and Juice had decided to leave him out of it.

But no more. They had no other options. Tig looked at Juice. "I say we bring Hap in now, take him with us. He and Toad are pals—maybe we can do this bloodless. He'll want to take it to the club, though."

Juice shook his head. "No—as long as it stays out of club shit, then Hap'll work on the side. Think about that meth head we helped him deal with, the one that stabbed Viv. He helped me with something, too, few years back."

Tig felt offended that Juice understood this dimension of Happy better than he did, but once Juice said it, Tig knew it was true. "Okay, let's get him on board."

-oOo-

They went into Toad's tattoo shop just before closing. There were no customers left, and the staff was cleaning up for the night. Hap went in first, throwing back the door and striding in. He turned to his right, stared down the two women at the desk, and said, "Out."

Tig, right behind him, looked past the desk at a man standing at a piercing station. "You heard him."

These were not your average retail employees, though, and they were not easily cowed. The piercer turned to face the Sons directly, crossed his arms, and yelled, "Toad! Get out here, man!"

Hap and Tig drew and cocked their guns almost simultaneously. A second later, Tig heard Juice, a couple of steps behind them, cock his piece as well. Then Tig heard the security gate roll down. He took a quick look back. The steel mesh was black and dense. Good thinking on Juice's part. It made getting the staff out more complicated, but the three of them were standing in a brightly lit shop with their guns drawn, so the priority was obscuring that view from the street.

Toad came out from the back, a length of pipe in his hand. The weapon gave Tig a nasty flashback, and he shook his head clear.

Toad stared at Hap. "What the fuck? _Hap_? What're you fuckin' doin', man?"

Hap turned to his friend without moving the gun from its aim at the piercer. "We need to talk to you. They need to keep their fuckin' mouths shut. We let 'em leave, will they?"

"Ain't no rats here, man. You gonna tell me what the fuck you want?"

Tig looked at the piercer. "Take the women and get out. You say a word, we end you. And your family. Clear?"

One of the women whimpered faintly—a little blonde thing, hardly any ink, probably just the receptionist. Tig took a step toward her and said, "Mouth shut, doll. Say anything and I'll shove my piece up your cooze and pull the trigger. Clear?" She nodded and started to cry. He felt . . . weird. Guilty, maybe? A little sick. Not like him at all. He lived for this shit.

The other woman, taller, blue-black hair, heavily inked, with two bars through the bridge of her nose, put her arm around the smaller woman and glared at Tig.

"Christ on a motherfuckin' crutch. Get out, guys. Keep your fuckin' traps shut. It's cool. Hap's a friend. Not actin' like it, but a _good_ friend." Toad held his arm out and ushered his employees out the back door. When they were gone, the piercer saying, "You call me, man," as he left the shop, Toad leaned the pipe against the wall and held his hands up. "No need for the firepower, friends."

Hap decocked his Glock and tucked it against his back. Tig followed suit with his Beretta. Juice did the same, but Hap swung around and said, "No. Keep yours out. Be ready."

Hap walked into the work area of the shop. Toad walked forward as well, and they met halfway, leaving about six feet between them. Toad nodded. "Good to see ya, buddy. We got a problem I don't know about?" His eyes shifted to Tig as he ended his question—he knew exactly why they were there.

"My brothers tell me you won't give 'em the help they need, T. They're thinking you'd talk to me, though. I _know_ you'll talk to me. Let's have a sit, why don't we?"

Toad sat, but he was shaking his head. Tig's fists curled tight. "I can't help you, man. I wish I could, but you gotta understand. This is bad shit. My little sister's mixed up in it, and family's my priority. I'm sorry. Fuck, Hap. I can't."

Hap, who had not yet sat down, punched his friend in the mouth. Toad leapt up, his hand to his mouth, and Juice came forward, his gun leveled at Toad's face, forcing him back into the chair.

Tig looked at Happy. His expression was dark and closed. Toad was a friend, and Hap wasn't invested in the intel. This had to be riding him hard. "Hap, man. Let me take it."

Hap turned on him. "Nobody touches him but me. You got questions, ask 'em. But nobody touches him but me." He looked at Juice and nodded at his gun. "Unless you need to use that."

Tig nodded. "Yeah, okay." He turned to Toad. "You brought that bad shit into Desi's club, asshole, and he almost killed her. He did kill Big Frank. This shit is your fucking fault. Make it right. Give us something. You don't know where he is, then give us something we can go on."

"You deaf? I _can't_. You should leave it, too. No retaliation worth the shit that'll rain down. Leave it. All I can tell you. Move on. Leave it be."

Tig hadn't seen Hap pull his hunting knife from its sheath, but the long, sharp blade was out now, its steel glinting in the bright light of the work space. He pressed the point in Toad's commodious belly, only hard enough to sting but not to do any damage. Yet. "Not bein' very friendly, T."

"Goddamn it, Hap. You really gonna cut me?"

Hap looked over at Tig and raised his eyes to the lights overhead. Understanding, Tig went to find the switches. When he did, he killed all the lights but those around Hap's work area. The heavy mesh gate, the dark, and their distance from the shop windows should obscure them sufficiently from curious eyes, assuming there were any at this hour.

Hap pulled a clutch of long black zip ties from inside his kutte. Toad saw them and again started to get up, but again sat down when Juice put the gun in his face. "Hap—buddy—this is fuckin' _nuts_."

"You need to talk, T. And you will. Sooner is better for you than later."

Once Toad's arms were bound, his hands open over the thick arms of the tattooing chair, Hap sat on a rolling stool in front of him and raised his knife. "Now, T, I got no love for messing you up, but you're gonna tell us what you know. You tell a great story, buddy. So tell us this one." He put the point of the knife on the back of Toad's right hand, in the middle, between the ridges of bone. "When I'm done, you'll never hold a tattoo machine again."

"Hap. My man. You're fuckin' shittin' me."

Tig watched as Hap pushed the point of the knife into his friend's hand. He went slowly, surgically, and Toad didn't react at first, except to tense up. Then a stream of blood moved over the ridges and off the side of his hand, dripping onto his jeans. "Stop! Fuck! Okay, okay!" Hap pulled the knife up and sat back.

Toad looked at Tig. "Maribel—that's my sister—she got tangled up with a demented son of a bitch. He kept her all strung out, beat the shit out of her, handed her around. Just any fuckin' nasty shit you can think of, he did it to her. My mom and me, we lost track of her for most of the time she was with him. But she got away someway, and came to me. I been helpin' her clean up. She had a kid, a little boy, with that piece of worm shit, though. Sweet little kid. Three. She named him Teddy. That's my name, you know. Ted. She named her kid after me."

He turned his eyes now to his friend. "Hap—he got him. Took him out of daycare. Still has him. Doesn't want Maribel anymore, but has _me_ on a fuckin' leash for helpin' my own sister when she needed me. He holds the boy up to get me to jump, says he's gonna do all manner of awful shit to his own kid. He'd do it, too. One look at the empty sack my sister is now, and you'd know. It's coke. I'm all up in his drug business now, packin', sellin', whatever he wants. I shit coke balloons on a fair regular basis. He says roll over, I play dead."

It was a bad story, and Tig felt some sympathy for Toad. He looked over and saw that Hap's grip on his knife was white knuckle. Now that he was a father, he had no tolerance for kids getting hurt. Tig thought back to that day in Indian Hills, and what the two of them had done to a kid about Teddy's age to get intel out of his father. Hurt the little guy bad. Tig hadn't been able to go through with it, but Hap had, and it had blown back on him _hard_.

Tig shook the memory off. "That's bad luck, man, but what's it got to do with Raven?"

"Raven is a relation—cousin, I think—a black sheep. He needed to keep him in the States and out of trouble. Decided that bouncin' would be a great job to do just that. Told me to roll over. I did."

"And offered up Desi, you piece of shit. What's the fucker's name, who's so far up your ass?"

"Just goes by JoJo. Don't know more. Not even Mari knows more. That's how fucked up she's been."

Tig was about to push for more when Juice muttered, "Christ. Jesus Christ." Both Tig and Hap turned to look at him. He looked distraught. "JoJo is the handle of Jose Galindo—nephew of Miguel Galindo, head of the cartel. We're fucked."

Hap immediately cut the ties from Toad's wrists and handed him a piece of clean gauze for this wounded hand. Flexing it to make sure it still worked right, Toad glared at Hap. "Get the fuck out."

Hap nodded, and the Sons left.

-oOo-

When they got back to the clubhouse, Hap stood in front of Tig and Juice as they dismounted. "Talk to me, brothers. Why did I just cut on a friend?" He'd only wanted broad strokes beforehand; now he wanted details.

Juice stepped up and started talking, explaining what happened to Desi. Tig let him, not sure how he would explain it better. When he was done, Hap asked, "And Desi is a friend of the club? Don't see her around much."

Juice nodded. "Yeah, man. Kinda. I guess she's not actually under our protection"—he looked at Tig—"but she's the closest thing to a mother Frank's got." Tig saw that that caught Hap's interest. He had a soft spot for Juice's old lady, even walked her down the aisle. A daddy thing, Tig thought.

Now was the time. Tig faced Hap and looked him in the eye. "She's protected, Hap. She's my old lady."

Normally, especially at the club, Hap had two main expressions: none at all or fierce as fuck. When he was at home, he wore a softer face. But never before had Tig seen the look of utter astonishment he wore now. "Your what?"

"You heard me, brother."

"Since when?" Tig could see him trying to sort this new information out. He knew it was hard to believe, and he wasn't looking forward to the ration of shit he was going to get from the rest of the club. Hell, he'd ridden Hap hard when he got with Viv.

"Been seeing her off and on almost a year. Serious for a while—since the fire, I guess."

Hap looked at Juice. "You knew about it?"

Juice nodded. "First time I heard him call her old lady, but yeah, I knew they were together."

"Fuck. She got your crow?"

Tig had no idea if he'd ever convince her to take his ink. "Nah, man. Doesn't change it, though. She's protected."

Hap looked out past Tig's shoulder for a few seconds. "Shit. We gotta take all of it to the table."

Tig nodded. That had been clear as soon as Juice uttered the word "Galindo."

They walked to the clubhouse three abreast. About halfway there, Hap threw his arm around Tig's neck. "An old lady. Well, fuckin' wonders. Good for you, brother."

-oOo-

When Tig pulled into the lot of Desi's hotel late the next night, he parked and then sat on his bike, thinking. He had to figure out what to say to her. He wasn't an idiot, but she was insanely smart. Her brain worked a lot faster than his, especially when she felt threatened, and she'd get him tripped up somehow unless he thought things through first.

He'd promised he'd get Raven for her. He'd sworn it. And it looked now like that wouldn't be true.

Church had been an explosive affair, so much so that Tig claiming Desi as his old lady wasn't even front page news. Tig, Hap, and Juice had stayed up all night in the clubhouse, talking out what they knew and working through how to tell it to the club. Jax had called everybody in the next day, after they'd explained to him what they'd been up to the night before. In the interim, Juice did some more of whatever he did on the computer and verified that Raven Gale was in actuality Ramon Galindo, familial thorn in the side of Miguel Galindo and all his relations.

But a nephew who's a pain in the ass is still a nephew, and all the Sons knew Galindo would vaporize anyone who went after his blood kin, his brother's son. None of them would do any differently. The Sons had worked with the Galindos for years and because of it had endured one of the bloodiest, most devastating eras in their history. They were finally, recently, clear of all that, and they'd gotten out without bad blood with the cartel. It had been a crowning achievement for Jax's presidency. Getting on the wrong side of Miguel Galindo would explode all that and most likely get all of them and everyone connected to them killed horribly.

You do not piss off a Mexican druglord. Which meant that Raven, aka Ramon, was out of reach.

Tig and Juice argued hard anyway—and so did Hap, which surprised the hell out of Tig. But he had that little boy in his head, and he wanted to save him, get him out of there. He didn't merely want Raven; he wanted JoJo, too. He pushed hard and got angry enough that Jax had stood him down.

The meeting ended with a strict ban on any additional hunting for Raven or any Galindo, and Jax, Bobby, and Chibs planning to try to get with Romeo Parada to see if there was any way to make any part of this right. The odds were microscopic.

And now Tig was sitting on his bike in the dark parking lot of Desi's fancy winery hotel, trying to work out how to tell her that Raven was most likely never going to pay for what he'd done to her.

He had no idea.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he dismounted and headed to her little bungalow. She was waiting for him on the patio, standing with her arms wrapped around herself against the light evening chill. She must have heard his bike pull in. She was so damn sexy to him, even dressed plainly like she was now—a black knit tank and snug jeans, her feet bare, her hair soft around her face, no makeup—she was a fucking vision, like she was made for him.

He pulled her into his arms. "Hey, Des. Sorry I'm so late."

"Everything okay?" Her arms around his waist, she nosed open the collar of his shirt and pressed a kiss to the base of his throat. What he really wanted to do was set aside the past couple of days and carry his old lady into her bedroom and fuck her silly.

"Yeah. Missed you last night." He pushed her away so he could see her face. "We need to talk, baby."

Her brow furrowed, but she wiped it away and was calm instead. "That sounds like a problem. Is there a problem?"

He took her arm. "Let's talk inside." She let him lead her in, and he sat them down on the sofa.

"Tig, what's up?"

He decided there wasn't a good way to come at it, so he came at it head on. "I have some information about Raven."

She sat straight up, her expression both avid and relieved. "Finally! What? Where is he?"

"Wait, Des. Hear me out." He cleared his throat and held her hands. "Raven Gale isn't his real name."

She huffed her contempt. "Well, of course not. It's some stupid Goth affectation. That can't be all you have."

"No, baby. Shut up and listen." That set her back and got her started on the road to pissed—demonstrably pissed was something she did now, since the fire—but he needed her to let him say it. "As bad a guy as he is, Des, he's connected to much, much worse. Salt the earth kind of bad. His real name is Ramon Galindo. You know what the name Galindo is?"

She nodded slowly. "It's a drug cartel. I had somebody in a drug cartel _bouncing_ for me?"

"He's not exactly in the cartel. He's related to the leader. Toad told me—"

"—Wait. You talked to Toad? He told you something? He wouldn't tell me shit!"

He didn't want to tell her why Toad talked, so he ignored her outburst and went on. "He told me that his sister got pulled into shit with Raven's cousin, somebody who really is in the cartel, and he's been . . . blackmailing, I guess, Toad to try to keep Raven out of trouble."

She shook her head as if to unscramble her thoughts. "None of that made much sense, but if they were trying to keep Raven out of trouble, they fucked that shit up royally. Where is he? Did you figure that out or not?"

She wasn't hearing him, and he was doing a shit job of explaining it, so he stopped trying to give her context and just said the important part. "Desi. He's untouchable. Retaliating will blow up in your face—in all of our faces. We can't kill him. We can't hurt him. We can't even keep hunting him. I'm so sorry, baby, but you got to let it go. He is out of our reach."

She'd gone pale and had erased all expression from her face. She yanked her hands out of his and got up from the couch to stand in front of the open French doors.

He sat where he was and watched her back, still and straight, as she looked out into the night. He wished he could know what she was thinking. He wished he could know how to comfort her. They were both hanging her ability to work out a future for herself on the hook of her revenge. Now, instead of revenge, she had nothing but the knowledge that Raven had destroyed her life and danced off scot-free.

Fuck, he was worried. What would that mean for her? For them?

"Desi."

She turned around, her arms crossed over her chest. "Maybe he's out of your reach, but he's not out of mine. I'll do it myself."

Tig stared at her, unable at first to understand what she meant. She simply stared back, her expression stony, resolute.

Then it came to him. She was thinking she'd hire people to track Raven down. She could do it, too. And if she succeeded? Fuck.

He stood and walked to her. "No, Des. You're not getting it. He's out of reach because he's too dangerous to reach. We could find him, but it would be suicide. More than that. It'd be fuckin' genocide. They'd wipe the Sons and our families off the map."

The resolve in her eyes was heating up into fury. He rubbed his hands up and down her upper arms, trying to calm her. Releasing her arms from across her chest with a violent flourish, she knocked his hands away. Her voice low but emphatic, she spat, "He _killed_ my _friend_. He _shot_ me. He _bound_ me to a _pole_ and _burned_ my _life_ into _ash_."

"Baby, I know. I know it sucks. I'm so sorry." He tried to reach out for her again, but she backed away.

"It doesn't _suck_, asshole; it's _fucking_ _unbearable_. I am _going_ to _kill_ that motherfucker. You won't help me, fine. I will find help. Beautiful thing about money."

"Desi, you're not hearing me. You have to listen—"

She cut him off. "I hear you fine. You have other priorities. I get it. I have this one." The pulse in her neck was just about leaping out of her skin, and he was fairly certain she wasn't turned on right now. She was livid.

But so was he—and more than that, he was desperate to change her mind. "_NO_! Goddamn it, listen to me! _You're_ my priority! This son of a bitch will get you killed! Desi, think—you're all about considering risks. Consider this one. You will _die_ if you go after him!"

"I don't fucking care! I'm dead already!" She stormed past him, deeper into the room, toward the little kitchen. He reached out and grabbed her arm. She wheeled around and tried to yank it back, but he held on and pulled her close. She pushed against him with her free hand, so he grabbed that one, too.

She couldn't say something like that and think he'd let her just walk by.

"Jesus Christ! Don't fucking say that, Des. You're not. You're here. You're right here." She didn't respond, but she kept struggling against his hold, so he backed her the few steps to the wall and leaned on her.

She snarled in frustration, "Fuck! I'm so tired of you putting me on a wall! Enough with your macho bullshit!"

"I need you to calm down, Desi. I need to tell you something, and I need you to listen."

"I've been listening. All I'm hearing is that I'm fucking alone. Good to know. I got confused there for a while."

None of this desolate talk was like the Desi he knew, and it scared the shit out of him. He shook her—hard. "Stop it! Shut the fuck up! You're not dead! You're not alone! I love you, goddammit! I'm trying to help you! Now listen!"

She stopped struggling and glared at him, her eyes bright and glittery with anger. "Let me go. Say your piece. Then get the fuck out." Her voice was now level and calm.

Deciding to ignore for the moment that she was trying to throw him out yet again, Tig let her go, slowly, ready to grab her if she tried to attack him or run again. She didn't, and he led her back to the sofa. She sat with her arms crossed and scowled at him.

"Des, I need to tell you more about my Dawn. I need you to just let me say it, okay?" When he spoke his daughter's name, he saw the change in Desi's eyes. She would listen.

"The man who did that to her, who killed her like that and made me watch it happen? He was a real dangerous guy. Powerful. Rich as fuck. What he did to Dawnie wasn't even the end of it. He killed a brother, too. Opie. I don't think you knew him, but he was a good man. A good Son. Lot of ways, I think he was the best of us. And Jax's best friend since before they were in school." Tig also remembered Lilli, Opie's old lady. Her death was on Tig's back, too, though that hadn't been Pope's doing. That had been Laroy. Pope's daughter had been his old lady. Lilli had died hard, even harder than Dawn. Tig didn't bring her up now.

He was quiet, remembering those long few weeks of blood and death and guilt. Still fresh when he called them up, even years later, those memories would ride him into the grave.

"Even though he'd hurt us all like that, taken so much, we couldn't retaliate. He was too dangerous. He could have wiped us out with a twitch of his finger. Des, we ended up _working_ for him. Giving him big shares of what we earned. _For two fucking years._ He killed my baby, he killed our brother, and he did it viciously. And then we _paid_ him."

He stopped and searched her eyes. Her fury was gone, or at least tamped down. She was hearing him. Her hands were now resting in her hap; he picked one up and held in both of his.

"I don't know if you can understand what it was like to work for that guy. It tore me apart, over and over. But I waited. About a year and a half ago, the chance came. I ground him into pulp. I waited until what I needed wouldn't put more hurt on my family, and then I killed the shit out of that son of a bitch."

He ran a finger down the length of the vein pulsing in her neck. "What I'm saying, baby, is wait. I'll help you. I will. But wait until what you need can't hurt more than it helps. Just wait. I don't want to lose you. Just wait."


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 24:  
**"I'm Not Down," The Clash

_Wait, he said. Wait. And do what in the interim? Sit by the pool? Get a mani-pedi? Take up knitting, maybe?_

Desi lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, watching the moonlight coming in through the bedroom window refract on the crystals of the ornately funky light fixture. Tig slept beside her, on his stomach, his arm resting possessively across her belly. He was snoring lightly.

She'd been moved by his story about the man who'd killed Dawn, and it had derailed her anger, and her drive, at least for that moment. Speechless, she'd pulled him close and kissed him, and they'd ended the fight by fucking frantically on, over, and beside the sofa.

Now, she felt stifled and unsettled. Even his snoring—something he did rarely, thank God—made her feel trapped. There was something too familiar, too tame about what was happening between them. She was turning into a woman who sat around, vacant, waiting for her man to come home and fill her up. Jesus Christ, that would not do. She needed a life. She needed her life.

She slid out from under Tig's arm and got out of bed. She dressed quietly in workout clothes, grabbed her little iPod and earbuds, and left for the hotel gym. She didn't leave a note; she'd be back before he woke.

-oOo-

She could only do about 15 minutes, at the snail's pace of seven miles per hour, on the treadmill before she needed the inhaler, but she was improving. She was glad even for that, because running helped her think one thing at a time, and think it through. Alone in the gym in the wee hours of the morning, she thought about Raven. Or Ramon, whoever he was.

She had to finish him. He had her life, and she needed it back. She tried to reason with herself, tell herself that, as she had done before, she could build her life from scratch. But it wasn't true. Before, she'd had nothing. She'd come from nothing—literally from garbage. Nothing had been taken from her, because she hadn't had anything to take. She had started as garbage, and she'd grown up as garbage, and it had been fitting. And then, when she could, she'd stood up, saw that she could be more, flattened those who would keep her less, and started anew.

Raven had taken _everything_. He'd made her powerless, set everything she'd built ablaze, and skipped off with a jaunty little salute. She was trapped in a loop of inertia, unable to break free and move forward. And he was out there, unimpeded, smug in the knowledge that he was unreachable.

Well, he was fucking wrong.

She'd heard Tig. She understood the risk, to herself, to him, to the Sons. She took good account of it. But she didn't see what choice she really had. She could not let that motherfucker win. It would undo her. She was already half undone. There had to be a way—at least to keep the Sons clear of it. She was willing to take on any risk herself.

_There had to be a way._

She'd moved on from the treadmill. She had XTC playing in her ears, a nice sweat going, and fairly good control of her breathing. She was almost through her second set of pull-ups when she felt a hand on her leg. Startled, she let go of the bar and would have fallen except that Tig caught her.

He set her down, and she pulled the buds out. "Fuck, Tig. You scared me."

He was glaring at her. "Call it payback. I had no fucking idea where you went."

"Well, you found me. I wasn't hiding. I just didn't want to wake you up. I thought I'd be back before you got up." She stepped away from him and grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat from her face.

"Des, are you okay?"

Tossing the towel in a hamper against the wall, she wheeled on him. "You know I'm not. You know what I need. And you want me to _wait_—who the fuck knows how long. So, no, I'm not." She walked out of the gym and headed back to her bungalow.

He followed her but didn't try to catch up. When she got back to the bungalow, she went straight into the bathroom and started the shower. As she stepped into the hot stream, she heard the door open. She wasn't surprised—she'd walked away in what she was sure he thought of as the middle of a fight, and he wasn't going to let that slide. Watching through the gauzy shower curtain as he undressed, she considered telling him he wasn't welcome. She didn't. He was.

He pulled the curtain back and stepped in behind her. Pulling her sharply back against him, he leaned down and bit the meat of her shoulder, the sharp thrill of his teeth searing her spine and making her gasp. Then he whispered in her ear, "You know I'm not gonna let you run, baby."

His hands came up and covered her breasts, and she raised her arms over her head and threaded her fingers through his hair. "I'm not running."

"You been running from me since we met." He gave her nipples a sharp tug, and she cried out as the nerves in her breasts spasmed briskly. The throb between her legs was heavy and rich.

He was pissing her off, and she had something else in mind. "Just shut the fuck up." She reached between them, grabbed his rigid cock, and gave it a pull; he groaned and flexed his hips against her ass.

He laughed. "Okay. How 'bout I get you clean after your workout." He picked up her cinnamon-scented shampoo and poured some into his hand. She relaxed against his chest as he worked the lather through her short hair, his nails gently grazing her scalp. When he was done, he turned her around, and she put her head under the stream to rinse. As she did, he plucked at her nipples, keeping them firm and alert, and making her clit twitch.

She wiped the water out of her face, and he turned her back around, holding her close, his cock pressed between her legs. "I love your body all wet and slick like this," he crooned into her ear. Then he grabbed her soap and brought his hands together in front of her, lathering them up. She lay back on him, closed her eyes, and let him wash her.

He washed everything, pausing at intervals to add soap, lingering at her breasts and between her legs. She measured her breaths and stayed relaxed, opening her body to every silky swirl and swipe of his hands on her skin. If he was trying to make up for pissing her off, he was doing a fine job.

Then he dropped to a squat and washed her feet and legs, massaging as he moved up her calves to her thighs, finally standing, his hands cupping her ass. He kneaded her cheeks and hooked his chin over her shoulder. "Your ass is so damn gorgeous, Des. Round and firm." He limned the outline of a tattoo that tapered over her the small of her back and onto her cheeks—the roots of the flaming live oak tree. "I love this ink, too, and the way it leads down."

His touch felt electric and her pleasure was intense, but Desi had a feeling she knew where he was headed, and she set part of her attention aside to keep watch.

His thumbs slid into the cleft between her cheeks and traced downward. "I think about it all the time." He growled against her throat. "Let me have your ass, baby. God, I want to feel you like that. Please."

He was treading on rocky territory here; he had to know that. He hadn't brought this up since the morning he'd crossed a line. They'd come far since then, she knew. _He_ had come far. But he'd let her down last night. He wanted her to set aside the one thing she desperately needed. "No."

His hands stilled on her cheeks. "I love you, Des. Don't you trust me yet?"

"Not enough."

He dropped his forehead to her shoulder and brought one hand up to trace the scar from her bullet wound. He did that often; she hated it, hated the reminder that it was there, but she didn't stop him. "What do I have to do?," he muttered.

She turned her head to the shoulder he was leaning on. Her lips on his head, she said, "You want to have my ass, you need to have my back."

He lifted his head and stared at her, eyes flaring. He was hurt. She stared right back and said no more.

The water was cooling off, so she leaned to the faucet and added more hot. As she came back up, he grabbed her and spun her around, pressing her back against the tile wall. One of his fucking signature macho moves, immobilizing her on a wall. Her foot hit a soapy spot on the floor of the tub and slid; he caught her and lifted her off the floor. His cock was hot and hard against her belly. He pulled one of her legs around his waist, shifted, and sank into her. She gasped at the sudden, unexpected penetration—this kind not unwelcome. She clenched her muscles around him, savoring the feeling of his bare cock inside her. He let out a long, groaning, breath. She was as glad as he was that they'd done away with condoms. As long as he held to the terms.

"Goddammit, Desi. _I have your back_. That's what I'm doing. Keeping you safe." He shoved deep.

She hit his the shoulder with the flat of her hand. "I don't want you to keep me safe. I don't need it."

"_I _need it." He hooked his arm under her other leg and hoisted it up high. The position was awkward, and she reached out to grab the towel rod. But shit, he got deep this way. He leaned in, his head against her neck. "I need you safe, Des. Don't you fuckin' get that?" Taking long, hard strokes, he hammered into her. Every time he struck deep, he'd pause and murmur another sentence in her ear. "I'd lose my head if something happened to you. I need you safe. I need you to wait. Stay with me. Wait."

She was having trouble keeping her attention on the fight they were having in the middle of this fuck. She figured that was his intention, and it pissed her off, but in the meantime, she was moaning and gasping, actively chasing an incredible orgasm. Every time he slid in, every time he slid out, his cock dragged right over her g-spot, and then he'd land deep, pressed hard on her clit, his hips flexing and swiveling. Fuck, it was good. Just a little more . . . his hold on her was tight, but she managed to shift down a bit and roll her hips.

"Ah, fuck," he muttered, and then finally, he shut up and just fucked her, picking up his pace. She clutched him close and went along for the ride. When she came she screamed—her first full-throated scream since the fire. Her voice died out at the end, but to her it was still a beautiful sound. Maybe the steam helped.

She was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and she relaxed on him as he continued to move vigorously inside her. He came with a guttural moan, his fingers digging into her thighs.

Still holding her, he sat down on the floor of the roomy tub, and they rested together, a knot of arms and legs, while the shower sprayed them with cooling water.

-oOo-

Desi woke up in daylight later that morning to the sensation of Tig's fingers tracing the ink on her back. She rolled over, and he picked up the journey with the ink on her chest. He grinned at her, smug. He thought he'd won in the shower. "Morning, baby. I have an idea."

She blinked herself fully awake and turned to face him. He moved his hand to her arm and traced there. "What?"

"Let's go someplace. Take a trip."

"What are you talking about?"

"Let's get out of here for awhile. You said you have friends in, what, Paris? Let's start there. We could get a bike, ride around. We have charters in Europe. We could drop in on a couple."

"I thought that was running away."

"I'm not saying we move there. Just take a few weeks, get our heads straight. Be together, do what we want."

"Can you get away?"

"I can get the time. Not a big deal. What do you say?"

Going to Europe for awhile felt more like running to Desi than _moving_ to Europe did. It wouldn't get her moving forward; it would only put a full stop to even trying. Not that she was trying now. She felt blocked. She couldn't see around Raven to any kind of future at all.

Maybe she did need distance. Maybe getting out of the loop she found herself in would give her a chance to see it another way. "Do you even have a passport?"

He grinned and pulled her close. "Not a problem, baby. So that's a yes?"

Europe with Tig. On a bike. She had to admit that the allure was potent. "Yeah, okay. A few weeks."

Laughing in obvious triumph, he tried to roll over on top of her, but she pushed back and topped him instead. As she straddled him, a thought occurred to her, and she smirked. "Naw, _cher_, I tink you been a' top more'nough."

His eyes grew wide and sparkled with heat. "Oh, shit, baby. Oh, yeah." He grabbed her hips and flexed his, pressing his cock between her legs. "God, baby, you feel like spun silk."

Her hands on his chest, she leaned down and kissed him, sucking his tongue between her teeth. He let go of her hips and clutched her face in his hands, heating up the kiss to blistering until she had to pull back and catch her breath. "Talk more, doll. Come on."

"Like dat, do ya? _Je veux t'enculer. Et toi_?" She grabbed his cock and held it firmly as she slid over it, her muscles clutching him all the way. She let her breath out in a languid sigh as she settled on him and rolled her hips. "Ah, _cher_. _Je t'aime_."

With a growl, he grabbed her hips and surged up into her, his feet flat on the bed. "Fuck, I got no idea what you're saying, but it sounds so goddamn hot."

She was having a hard time thinking of things to say in Cajun French or even in the accent, because he filled her so full and her brain was already spinning with the idea of a trip to Europe. "Aw, ah love dat big cock. _Ca c'est si bon."_ She cupped her breasts and worked her nipples, swiveling on him energetically, getting him to hit just where she needed it. She closed her eyes and stopped trying to turn him on with sexy talk he couldn't understand. She couldn't talk around her own moans now, anyway. And then she felt his thumb on her clit. She arched back with a long moan.

"Go baby, oh, go. Come on. Ah, fuck, come on." He grunted the words at her through clenched teeth, panting strenuously.

She held off. She liked it when he went first. He'd stay hard long enough to get her off, and she loved when he couldn't wait for her any longer. Watching him struggle and lose was one of the hottest things about their very hot fucks. So she bit her lip and measured her breath.

"Goddammit. Oh, fuck, Des, I can't—I can't—" he left her clit to grab her hips again and drive up into her, hard and repeatedly, as she ground down on him until he just about howled. As he twitched the end of his release, she leaned forward and picked up the pace of her gyrations until she, too, was gasping and grunting, the sensation exploding inside her. Jesus, topping him, even lightly, like this, was a singularly fantastic experience.

She lifted off him and flopped to his side, spent. He reached out and laid a loose-limbed arm over her. "Don't go anywhere," he panted. "Stay with me."

She looked at him, wondering if he meant stay in bed right now, or if he meant something more than that. He was lying on his back, his eyes closed, and offered no more insight.

-oOo-

Eventually, they got up and ordered breakfast. Desi was getting tired of eating room service, but the "kitchen" in her bungalow wasn't good for much more than making coffee.

Tig finished his eggs and bacon and wiped up his plate with a piece of rye toast. Then he pushed it away and regarded her seriously. She chewed her wedge of grapefruit and raised her eyebrows at him. "What?"

"I want you to come to the clubhouse with me this afternoon."

She had only been to the clubhouse a couple of times, and never with Tig. He'd never asked, and that had been fine with her. She liked the Sons; she was simply leery of what going with Tig would mean. Her internal antennae twitched. "Why?"

"Friday Church, and then the club party. I claimed you as my old lady this week, and I want them to see you with me."

No, he didn't. He wouldn't have. He—oh, fuck. Desi's heart raced. The grapefruit stopped halfway down her throat. She forced it down with a gulp. She needed to be calm. She needed to control herself. She wasn't sure she could.

"You did _what_?"


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: **I'm leaning on Simone Santos and MuckyShroom a lot for this story. They are spectacular, supportive, readers and friends, and I'd have given up long ago without them—and the daily tweeting happiness that is the Freak Circle.

But for the rest of the story, I owe Mucky an extra-huge, triple scoop with chocolate sauce and strawberries, thank you, because she took the Gordian knot of my Raven/Toad/Desi/Tig/Teddy/JoJo/what-the-hell-was-I -thinking!? plotline and sliced right the through it, while I was curled fetal in a corner weeping into my personal abyss of self-doubt. A goodly share of the worthwhile ideas in the next chapters come from her. I grew them and made them mine, but she gave me the seeds and the Miracle-Gro.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 25:  
**"All of a Sudden (It's Too Late)," XTC

The heat rose up in Desi's eyes fast and furious. Tig had held out a slim, faint hope that she'd been on the same page with him, but he wasn't stupid. He knew they hadn't really talked about it. They'd only taken a glancing shot at it once, while he was fucking her. And he knew that Desi wasn't old lady material, not really, not even since the fire. Maybe _especially_ not since the fire.

As far as he was concerned, though, none of that fucking mattered. She was his old lady. She _needed_ to be his old lady. She needed the protection of the club, whether she knew it or not, whether she wanted it or not. Especially with this Raven shit out there. He needed her protected, and he was getting fucking tired of deferring to what she thought she needed.

Maybe there was a better way to bring the matter up, but Tig wasn't good at this shit, and he didn't know a way except to say it. Subtle wasn't his thing.

"I claimed you as my old lady."

She pushed away from the little table, rocking her chair up on its back legs. When she stood, it tipped over; she left it where it fell. "Why the _fuck_ would you do something like that?"

He was holding this goddamn line. "Because it's true."

"Says who? _You_? Who the fuck are you to _label_ me? I'm not your _anything_!" She took a step backwards and crossed her arms. He could see her chest rising and falling rapidly. Desi getting angry was still something he was getting used to. He thought it gave him a better chance for reaching her than that fucking cool ever had, but he wasn't sure.

He needed to be the calm one now, if he could. Kind of a tall order. "Desi, the club can help you—us—deal with Raven. If you're my old lady, then the whole club will stand with you when the time comes. You won't be alone. You'll never be alone."

She sneered. It made her ugly. "As long as I wait until it's convenient for you. I don't need help. I don't want it. I'm not dealing with _my shit_ on somebody else's terms."

Fucking control freak. His hands twitched with the desire to shake some sense into her, but instead he took a breath and blew it out. Maybe a different tack was better. "Do you love me, Des?"

She huffed. "At the moment, not so much."

Now he stood, too. He pushed his chair in. "I'm serious. Do you love me?"

"I told you I do." Another step backward. She was almost out of room in that direction.

"Tell me now."

Rolling her eyes, she snarled, "Yes, asshole. I love you." Not exactly convincing, but he thought it was the best he could expect right now, so he moved on.

"Then commit to me."

She threw her hands into the air. "I am! You fucking _live_ here! I've already agreed to change the way I play for you. Fuck, I haven't played at all in _months_! You want me to change _everything_? Become some club bitch, running around getting your fucking _beer_ for you? Tattoo your name on my _forehead_?"

Maybe he wasn't good at reading people, but even he could tell that Desi had already taken a detour from reasonable discussion. Now she was simply ranting. And making mincemeat of his feelings in the bargain.

Beginning actually to sweat with the effort, he stayed calm. "You know I don't want that. I want you to be part of my family. I want my family to keep you safe. Desi, I need this. You need it. People who have your back. Family."

"Never needed family before, no reason to start now. I know about the whole old lady thing in your _family_. I know what it means. Where old ladies land in the pecking order. I see it. I see all the women in the goddamn kitchen, serving the men. Neanderthal bullshit. Did you know Frank before? She was a little punk. A little me. Now she hosts _fucking cookouts_. And the other women? Your 'Crow Eaters'? Women standing in line to get fucked by whatever Son grabs their hair on their way back from taking a piss. Who the fuck do you think I am, Tig? How the fuck do you think I fit in there?"

Okay, now he was furious, too. Fuck calm. Fuck it. She wanted a goddamn blowout, then she'd get it, because he wasn't going to take that crap. That was his family. "I thought you were smart, but you don't understand anything you're talking about. That's not what the club's about _at all_. Maybe that's all you can see from the _outside_, but it's about people taking care of each other. If you'd stop fucking hiding and running from anything real in your life, then maybe you'd know better. But you're a fucking coward, Desi. A scared little girl, hiding in your fancy little playhouse, all alone, pretending that your toys and pretty things mean you have a life. They don't mean shit, doll. Just fuel for the fire."

He'd hit deep, and she was shocked at first. She looked stricken. Feeling some remorse, he started to come around the table to her. Then a hot rage overcame her features. "You son of a bitch. Get the fuck out. Get of here, get out of my fucking life. You piece of shit. Get the fuck _OUT_!" She screamed the last word and upended the table, sending tableware and food leavings shattering and scattering. She was wheezing.

He looked at the mess on the floor and reined his temper back in. "Desi, don't. Please listen. You're worried that being with me is changing you. It is. I see it. We're changing _each other_. But it's _good_. Maybe that what's supposed to happen. We make each other better. You make me better. Baby, I was off the rails since Dawn died. Doing all kinds of stupid shit. Bad shit. Out of control—for _years_, just getting worse and worse. I almost lost everything. I almost lost it all."

He felt the next thing coming into his mouth and stopped. No. Fuck, no. _Shut up!_ He couldn't tell her that. But he watched her glaring at him, her chest heaving with strained breath, her fists clenched, the color high on her cheeks, her eyes sparking, and he knew he had to. He had to show her that he trusted her completely, that _he_ was fully committed to _her_. "You know the worst thing I ever did? It was the night I came to your apartment all crazed. You remember?"

After a tense moment, she nodded. He watched her carefully as he continued. "I killed a Crow Eater. She laughed at me, and I bashed her head in until I could feel her skull in pieces under her scalp. I was drunk, but I did it because I was out of my mind." Desi's eyes widened slightly, but he could discern no other signs of shock or repugnance.

"That was bad, real bad, and I almost lost the club over it. I didn't take care of family. But it's not the worst thing. The worst thing is I blamed you. I came to hurt you that night. Maybe more. Probably more. You had me so spun, nothing in my life seemed right away from you. I thought you'd done something to me. I wanted to kill you, and I know you knew that."

Taking a long, slow breath, Tig considered his words before he went on. "You knew it, but you helped me. I was a monster, and you helped me. I can still feel your fingers in my hair. Nothing in my life—or my head—has been the same since that night. Jesus, baby. The worst fucking night of my life, even worse than Dawn, getting turned away from the club, and you made me feel _loved_. I've been yours since that night. I'm not giving that up. I'm _not_."

She hadn't moved, so he walked to her and tried to take her into his arms. She went rigid and sidestepped him. With a sigh, he dropped his arms. "I know you're scared, but I don't want to make you weak. I don't want to make you different. I love who you are, Des. Let me in. Let me stand with you. Let me give you a family. You don't have to be scared." That was it. He'd just laid himself wide open to her. He had no other plan. As it was, he had no damn idea where all that had come from.

"I'm not scared. I'm done. Get the fuck out." Her lips barely moved.

He felt sick. But _he_ wasn't done. He _wasn't_ giving up. Still, short of knocking her unconscious and trussing her to his bike, there was nothing more to do here now. Nodding, he said, quietly, "This is how you run, Desi. Every time I get close to something true about you, you throw me out and lock the door behind me. Run and hide. It's what you do. And it's weak. When you figure that out, you can find me at the clubhouse. I'll send a Prospect to pick up my shit."

He grabbed his kutte and left.

-oOo-

His hands were still shaking when he pulled into the T-M lot. He killed the engine, kicked the stand down, and just sat there, trying to work out what had happened and what the next thing was. He wondered whether he'd made an earthshattering mistake telling her about Junie. Once she processed that, would she see him now as the monster he'd been that night? He supposed that he'd exposed himself and the club to trouble if she called the cops, but he knew she wouldn't. His concern was whether he'd fucked them up more than they already were. Would she still love him knowing what he was really capable of?

Did she really love him now? She fought so goddamn hard against any demonstrable connection. It hurt. She was supposed to be the one who had it all together. The smart one, the sane one. He was the basket case. Why was he the one who understood what they had? How could he get her to see it?

"Tig!" He looked toward the garage and saw Bobby standing at the entrance to one of the bays, gesturing for him to come. "I need you, brother!"

Tig dismounted and went to work. Around lunch, he called Freddy over and sent him in the van to pick up his shit. He wasn't sure he was doing the right thing. He wasn't sure he'd be able to keep it together if they were really over. She felt like his salvation.

What he really wanted to do was lock himself up with her and fuck her until she gave in, but deep down, something was telling him they'd never be right unless she came to him. She had to see it on her own.

He went into the clubhouse after they closed the garage doors. Sometimes, especially on days like this, when he'd spent it up to his shoulders in some shitty subcompact that hadn't seen fresh oil since the factory, he missed the cartel days. The Sons has spent so little time working the garage then that they'd all been a little rusty when they had to go back to regular shifts. Fuck, these days they weren't even outlaws. Just mechanics with bad attitudes.

Freddy was back and behind the bar now. "Hey, Tig. I put your stuff back in the apartment. Hope that was right." He poured a tall tequila and slid it over.

He had no intention of going back to his place. Desi didn't know where he lived. He'd stay here for awhile, where she could find him. "Yeah, kid, s'fine. You see Desi?" Tig tipped the glass and poured the clear liquid down his throat. A drunk sounded like a mighty fine idea tonight, but Church first, so he'd pace himself.

"Uh, yeah." The kid looked awkward.

Just then, Happy sat down, and Freddy poured him a tall Jack Daniels.

Tig recalled his attention. "Freddy, something up at Desi's?"

Freddy shook his head. "No. Just—" He stopped again and moved to turn to the back of the bar. Lightning fast, Tig reached out and grabbed his arm.

"I'm going to break your wrist if you're not straight with me, kid. Right the fuck now. What was wrong?"

He could see the fear in Freddy's eyes. "It's just—place was torn up bad. I mean, if you guys got into it, none of my business. Seriously—don't mean to butt my nose in."

When he'd left, the table had been upended and a chair tipped. A mess, but the rest of the place was fine. Not what he would have called _torn up_. Not what any Son, top rocker or not, should think of as _torn up_. "Torn. Up. How?" He twisted the arm he still had in his grip for emphasis. Hap was watching silently but with interest.

Wincing and clearly scared witless, Freddy stuttered. "L-l-like ransacked. You k-know? Broken shit everywhere, curtains pulled down, pictures o-o-off the wall."

"She okay?" Tig released his arm, and Freddy snatched it back, rubbing his wrist.

"Yeah, she looked fine. Sad, maybe—don't know her much. But okay."

Tig nodded. A question was forming in his mind. Had Desi gone batshit after he left? Was that good or bad, in the long term? He felt Hap's elbow against his arm and turned.

"Trouble already?" Tig examined his friend's face. Didn't look like Hap was giving him shit. Without even making the decision to do it, he sought help. He wanted what Hap had. And Hap was married to a feisty broad.

He looked at Freddy. "Kid, leave the bottles and get lost." The Prospect nodded, set the bottles of Patrón and Jack on the bar, and made himself scarce.

Tig filled Hap's glass. "How'd you get Viv to be your old lady, take your crow?"

Hap laughed. "Let her get stabbed by a tweaker, remember? Big attitude change after that. Almost dying and all. Don't recommend it, though." Tig did remember. Ex-boyfriend or something. He and Juice had helped Hap take care of that asshole while Viv was still in the hospital.

"Well, Desi almost burned to death, but it just made her harder."

Hap tossed his drink back and gave Tig a serious look. "Brother, I thought she _was_ your old lady."

"Far as I'm concerned, she is."

Shaking his head, Hap said, "You know that ain't good enough. You're taking the club down a road here, with this shit with the Galindos. We chase it down—and I want that little kid, so I hope to shit we do—things are gonna get bloody. Your girl needs to be on board."

"I know, man. I know. I suck at this shit, though. Even worse than you. I just piss her off. And then she throws me out. Every fucking time." Hap laughed, and Tig took umbrage. "It's not funny, Hap. This love shit is fucked up." The clubhouse was starting to fill up, but, maybe sensing that Tig and Happy were thick in a discussion, people were leaving them alone.

Hap filled both their glasses again and clinked his against Tig's. "Indeed it is. Worth it, though. You need to talk to Frank, brother."

That was a _crap_ idea. "Why the hell would I do that? Little shit hates me."

Hap shrugged. "Maybe. But she loves Desi. Right? Juice said she was like a mother to Frank? Frank's an old lady. That's your in."

Tig dropped his head on his arms. "She hates me being with Desi more than anything."

Jax, Chibs, and Bobby filed in and headed toward the chapel. Hap stood and clapped Tig on the back. "I'm tellin' you. Talk to Frank."

They went to Church.

-oOo-

Almost a week later, he'd had no word from Desi. He'd had the Prospects keeping an eye on her. She'd been staying close to the hotel for the most part. She was done with therapy, so she wasn't even going to the hospital. She was acting like a shut-in, and it was worrying him.

Jax had set up a meeting for next week with Romeo to see if there was a way to deal with Raven and JoJo and not start a beef with a drug cartel. Tig needed to make something happen, get Desi on board. So far, as far as they could tell, she hadn't contracted anybody privately. Juice had hacked her—which he did with anybody the Sons brought into the club circle—and was monitoring her now. She'd blow a gasket if she found out, but that was a fight for later.

Tig bit the bullet and went to talk to Frank. He went to Level Up, the comic and games shop she owned, since he figured the odds of her making good on her repeated threats to shoot him were lower in her place of business, in downtown Charming.

A little bell rang over his head when he entered the shop. Jesus, the place even _smelled_ like geeks. There was group of three scrawny boys hovering around some kind of toy things, and a weird-looking couple examining comic books. Frank was behind the counter, in the rear center of the shop.

He guessed he could see that she was Juice's type. She was little and scrawny, but she was pretty cute. Reddish-blonde hair she wore in a ponytail. Black nerd glasses. Blue eyes a lot like his, only lighter. Lots of piercings and ink. She had a mouth on her, though, and he wasn't in the mood for it these days. He prepared himself to deal with her shit and be nice, because he needed her. _That_ galled the hell out of him, but it was true.

She watched him come toward the desk, her hands on her hips. _Oh, fuck. Here we go._ "Hey, Frank." He smiled.

She did not. "Tig. What the fuck are you doing here? Some new kink thing? Dungeon Masters here are not what you're thinking they are. Gotta go to Sac—or San Francisco—for your kind. Online works, too."

He laughed as if he thought what she'd said was funny. "Naw, doll. I want to talk to you. Got a minute for me?"

Long enough to make him start to squirm a little, she eyed him suspiciously. Then, without saying anything, she walked over to a door in the back wall. "Jerry, your lunch about over?. . . Cool. Take the floor for me?" A tall kid with stringy brown hair, a pronounced Adam's apple, and a hook nose that put Tig's to shame—fuck, the kid looked like an experiment gone really bad—came out, ducking the top of the jamb, and Frank looked at Tig and nodded through the door. He followed.

She sat down on a ratty looking couch that faced two huge TVs on the wall and a ton of electronic shit. He sat on the opposite end.

"What do you need, Tig?"

He knew why she didn't like him. He'd been an ass to her a few times. To Juice a lot more. For a long time, he'd hated her old man. Too fucking soft to be a Son. Always fucking up. And Christ, the kid cried all the time. What a pussy. But he'd grown up, and Tig had developed a grudging kind of respect, sometimes almost a sliver of affection, for him. And he actually liked Frank a lot, when she wasn't in his way. She was a spunky little twerp.

"I need you to help me with something. A favor."

She shook her head. "Oh, fuck. Seriously? This is about Desi, right?"

Smart women who were always one step ahead of him were starting to wear him out. Why was it again that sweetbutts weren't good enough anymore? "Yeah. I can't get through to her. I was hoping you'd help me."

Her laugh was sharp and derisive. "And why would I do that?"

"Because you know I love her. You know I'll be good to her." He was hoping that was true. He'd spent a couple of weeks mostly living at her house, and she must have seen how good he and Desi were together. She _must_ have. He tried one more thing. "And you know she needs the club."

With a long sigh, Frank crossed her arms and considered him. "Fuck, Tig. You know you're asking me to take up your side against my _best friend_?"

"No, doll, I'm not. I'm asking you to help her." He leaned forward. "Have you talked to her this week?"

The question got her attention, he could tell. "No. Left a message, but she hasn't gotten back to me yet. Why?"

"I want her to be my old lady. She flipped her shit. Now I haven't heard from her in coming on a week. I'm worried, and I need your help. Will you check on her, talk to her?"

"What—and ask her to take your ink? How's that my place?" She grunted, clearly frustrated. "Dude, I'm sorry. I don't see Desi being your old lady. I don't think there's ever been anybody like her in the club. She's different—from, like, everybody ever."

"So are you. But you wear Juice's crow. You fit in fine now. Get along with everybody. Except me, I guess."

Frank smiled at that. "Yeah, well, you're an ass 90% of the time. Look, I fought it, too. It pissed me off. I don't get why you think I've got the winning SAMCRO sales pitch."

"She's scared. She's scared a lot, since the fire. She's worried that she'll end up, I don't know—waiting on the guys or something. Being told what to do. I don't know. If I knew, I wouldn't need help. She just scared."

"God, are you really that dense? Do you know her at all? Of course she's scared. Desi had a very particular kind of life. She, like, _designed_ it. You know her story, right?" Tig nodded, and Frank went on. "She created herself out of nothing. Now, all the ways she knows herself are gone. What the fire didn't take, you've turned upside down. Fuck, since you, even her sexual orientation has practically changed. I've known her since I was right out of high school, and I've never known her to be with a guy until you, at least not one on one. And now the two of you are just about joined at the hip. It freaks _my_ shit out, and I'm only watching. Now you want to make her your property. Tig, think. Of course she flipped. What other reaction do you think she'd have?"

Tig raked his hands through his hair. He needed Frank's help, but he wasn't getting anywhere, and he didn't know how else to convince her. "Fuck, Frank. Goddammit. I love her. I want to keep her safe. She needs the club's protection. Raven is out there, and she wants him. And what if he comes back to finish what he started? She can't be alone. She can't do it alone. _She doesn't have to_."

He was getting worked up. He paused and considered Frank for a few seconds, regrouping. "If it pissed you off so much, why are you wearing Juice's crow now—fucker covers most of your back."

"Juice didn't push. I got my crow on my own, when I was ready. He didn't even know about it until it was done. Designed it myself, put it where I wanted it. It was weeks after the old lady thing. I hated that, too, everything I thought being an old lady meant. He convinced me because he explained that being his old lady made me a real part of the family. But, dude, Desi's not gonna understand that. She doesn't get how families work. You're gonna have to show her."

"I can't do that if she won't talk to me. She won't even come to the clubhouse with me. I'm tapped, Frank. I don't know where to go from here." A heavy kind of sadness rolled over him. Maybe he couldn't fix it. Maybe he would lose her.

Frank dropped her forehead into her palm. "Fuck. Just fuck. Fuck me. I can't believe I'm doing this. But Jesus, the puppy dog eyes are killing me. Okay. Look. You have to back off the ink. Let her figure that out on her own, one way or the other. No idea where she'd put a crow, anyway."

"Back of her neck." He hadn't actually even mentioned it to Desi yet, but he'd thought a lot about it, could see it in his head. It was beautiful.

Frank glared at him. "Well, shut the fuck up about it. Juice told me you already claimed her, right? So shut up about that, too. Don't push. I'll talk to her, but I'm not pushing, either. I'll see what she's willing to hear. I'll try to get her to talk to you, but you have to be smart. I realize that will be a stretch for you and all, but try. What Desi needs is to know that no one is trying to _make_ her be anything. She needs to figure herself out on her own."

Relief washed over him, and he grinned. He even had to fight down a lump in his throat. "Aw, doll. Thank you. God, that's—that's great. Really."

He leaned in to hug her, but she stiff-armed him. "No, dude. No hugs. I'm helping Desi. Like you said." She stood, and he did, too. "I've got to get back to work. Don't fuck it up, Tig. You're probably just about out of chances."


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 26:  
**"Explain It to Me," Liz Phair

Desi walked across the grounds from the manager's cottage. The late morning, late summer sun made the vineyard glow, its vines heavy with grapes almost ready for harvest. It was really a beautiful location, and she stood under the shade of a big old oak tree and looked out over the landscape. She tried to find calm, but she'd simply didn't have it any longer. Now, she was always anxious. Uncertain. Unhappy.

She'd sat with Patricia, the manager, over coffee this morning and made some arrangements—to pay for the damage to the bungalow, for one thing. When Tig walked out a week ago, a fury she hadn't felt in decades overtook her, and she'd behaved like John Bonham on a bender. When it was over, she could scarcely breathe, and she'd wracked up several thousand dollars in damage to someone else's property.

She had lost all semblance of self-restraint.

She also made arrangements to keep the bungalow through the balance of the year, even though it would be empty. She was going to Paris—alone, now, but still going. She wasn't sure she'd come back. She thought not, in fact, but she was trying to be smart and play out scenarios, the way she'd done for years, the way she'd managed her life successfully. So she wanted to have a place to return to, should she decide that was what she wanted to do. But she was packing up all of her meager possessions and taking everything with her overseas, so she wouldn't have a need to come back.

She and Patricia had had a passably pleasant conversation. The damage to the bungalow ceased to be a problem as soon as Desi opened her checkbook. Desi had made some comment about how well run the property was, her business chat skill appearing as if by reflex, and Patricia has spoken at some length about the challenges and struggles of keeping it going.

But Desi hadn't cared much, and she'd been glad to find a way to extricate herself graciously. She had some things to do to prepare for Europe, and she was eager to get started. That list energized her in a way she hadn't felt since the fire. And it kept her mind off the constant throb in her chest that was Tig.

She turned away from the vineyard and continued on toward her bungalow. As she approached the patio, she saw Frank sitting on a chaise lounge, her legs crossed at her pewter Doc Martens. Fuchsia tights, black knit mini, orange B-52s t-shirt. Frank dressed like she'd raided Desi's closet from 1982.

She stepped onto the patio. "Hey, sweets. What're you doing here?"

Frank sat up, swung her legs to the side of the chaise, and stood. "Well, I'm not here for a wine tasting. Here to see you, duh. You didn't call me back."

"Nope, sorry. I've been busy. Come on in." She opened the French doors and waved Frank inside.

The staff had put the room to rights the very next day after Tig left, so there was no evidence that Desi had behaved badly. She gestured to the sofa, and Frank sat. "You want something to drink? I've only got Pellegrino or still water in here—oh, or a couple of beers and some tequila—but I can call something up."

"I'm good. Sit and talk with me." Frank patted the leather next to her, and Desi sat.

"Are you doing okay, Des? I'm worried."

It was ironic and unsettling for Frank to have taken on the role of worried friend. That was Desi's place. "You don't have to worry about me, sweets. I'm doing okay. Sorry I didn't call you back. I'm just trying to get some things started, and I got busy." It was a lie, really. She was busier, but she hadn't called back because she didn't want to talk about Tig. She thought about telling Frank that she was leaving, but tabled the idea.

Frank leaned forward, her elbows on her knees. "Okay, Des. I'm not going to fuck around. I need to tell you about a talk I had, and then I want you to talk to me. Okay? Be straight?"

"I'm always straight, Frank. You know that."

"I know you were. You seem pretty twisted up lately. But okay. Tig came to see me."

That son of a bitch. Desi took a deep breath and fought to stay cool. "Drop it, Frank. Right now. Wherever that's going, you drop it. That whole thing is over."

Frank shook her head. "I'm not going to drop it until I've said what I want to say. If it's over, it's over. I'm not pleading his case. I just want to know what's going on with you. Because I saw you two at my house, and you looked pretty attached."

Desi snorted. Yeah, she bet they did. "Maybe that's the problem. I was becoming an attachment."

"Is that what you think I am?" Frank was regarding her with a challenge in her upraised eyebrows. Sly little shit.

"You know it's not. What you and Juice have is good. I see that—anybody could. That's not what I have with Tig. Whatever the fuck it is—was." Damn, she was uncomfortable. She didn't like talking about this at all, much less with her 20-years-younger friend who was suddenly behaving far too maturely. "Look, sweets. This is private. I don't want to talk about it. This is the wrong time for me to be tangled up with anybody, anyway. I need to figure out my next thing. Start putting a life together."

"I agree. But why wouldn't you want love to be part of that, if you have it? You love him; I know you do. I hate to say it, but from what I see, he's good to you. He's acting like a love-struck puppy, which is weird. But kinda convincing." She sat back in a rush. "Fuck, I _am_ pleading his case. Gross."

"Yes, you are. I'd really like you to stop. Or go. But I'm done with this conversation, one way or the other."

"No, Des. No way. You wouldn't let me dodge something like this, and I'm not gonna let you puss out, either. Tig told me the old lady thing freaked your shit. That true?"

"Tig's an ass."

"I agree. Did the old lady thing freak your shit?"

Fine. Fuck it. She turned on Frank, letting some emotion through the reserve she was fighting to keep. "Of _course_ it did. He told me he fucking _claimed_ me. Like I'm a car he valet parked. Nobody gets to claim me but me. Period."

"That's just how they say it. It's their thing. Doesn't have to be your thing. Isn't my thing. You're getting all caught up in vocabulary, and that doesn't fucking matter." Frank shifted to face Desi directly. "I did, too. I didn't want anybody to call me Juice's old lady. But they're just words. What they really mean is you're committed to him, and him to you. They take it seriously, too. They don't throw it around. It makes you part of the family. I have to tell you, it's pretty cool."

"He said that, too. You know I don't need a family."

"I know you don't. But why refuse one if you could have it? I don't need chocolate-covered raspberries, either, but I'll be damned if I'm going to pass one by."

Desi laughed despite herself. "You're comparing the Sons to candied fruit?"

Grinning now, Frank nodded. "Really decadent, sexy candied fruit, yes."

"I don't think you can understand. I don't understand right now. I just—I can't have people making claims on me, demands. I can't see any kind of path for myself right now, and I can't have Tig pull me onto his. I'm out of control, sweets. I never feel like I have any idea what's right. I can't make a decision like that right now. I can't." Suddenly weary beyond words, Desi closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her forehead. She felt Frank scoot closer to her and put her thin little arms around her. She started to pull away, but changed her mind and relaxed into her friend's embrace, her own arms sliding around Frank's slight body.

She'd come a long way, this little girl, from that scrawny, angry, scared teenager Desi had first flushed out as an underager in her club to the scrawny, confident, smartass woman she was now. They had been many things to each other in the nearly ten years they'd known each other: friends—always friends—but also mother and daughter, and, sometimes, lovers.

Frank had been closed and terrified of sex when they'd met. With Desi, she'd learned what her body could do, how it was supposed to feel. She'd opened up and learned to trust—women, anyway. Not until Juice did she regain her trust in men. She and Desi had never been romantically involved, but they had played. For a few years, they played often. As smart as her mouth was, as big her attitude, Frank was a natural, instinctive bottom. That was never more clear than when she was with Juice. She hugged him by climbing into his arms and letting him carry her like a child. With Desi, she had been immanently malleable, willing—wanting—to be led, positioned, touched, denied.

Remembering but not really thinking, feeling strongly a need that hadn't yet worked its way to her brain, Desi turned her head and caught Frank's lips. At first, Frank kissed her back without hesitation. They'd often kissed like this, and it hadn't led further in years. But a need was on Desi, and she pushed Frank down on the sofa, covering the smaller woman with her own body, pushing her hands underneath that orange t-shirt.

Frank shoved on her shoulders with a whimper, but Desi ignored her, reaching around, pushing her hand between Frank and the cushion, to unclasp her bra, heedless of the tension in her friend's body. As Desi took hold of the ring in Frank's left nipple, Frank tore her mouth away and said, "Desi, cobalt! Cobalt!"

Her safe word. Desi reared back, landing at the far end of the sofa. "Oh, God. Frank, I'm sorry." She had to get away. She was losing her mind. She was going to lose the last person she trusted. "I'm so sorry."

"It's okay. You stopped. We're good." Frank reached back and closed her bra, then readjusted her t-shirt. She was flushed and breathing rapidly, but she didn't run or yell. She sat back and looked Desi in the eye. "Okay, Des. _That_ was weird. Now I'm really worried. And now you owe me. Here's how you make it right: work this Tig thing through with me. You're right—you shouldn't be making any decisions on your own right now. You're a runaway train, my friend. You shouldn't be deciding what you _don't_ need any more than you should be deciding what you do. Not on your own. So work it through with me."

She'd just _sexually assaulted_ her best friend, and that friend brushed it away and was sitting there trying to help her—help she obviously needed. There was a shift in Desi's head in that moment, a slippage, and she let go of the rope her psyche had been clinging to. She was starting to get the idea that it had been a noose.

"I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm so sorry."

"Des, stop. It's okay. I get it. I know what that was, even if you don't. I'm not mad. But I'm totally exploiting your inappropriate advance now to get you to open up. Talk to me. Do you want Tig?"

Okay, that was a question. It had a quick answer. Yes. Yes, she wanted him. His story about killing the girl had been bad, but not all that surprising. It didn't factor into her feelings about him. His guilt about it surprised her more than the act itself, and that did factor—in his favor. And she'd been lonely as hell without him. He told her he thought about her all the time. Well, she was obsessing, too. But goddammit, she had to know what it meant, how being with him would affect her fucking life, before she made a commitment. She couldn't go in blind.

"You're a good friend."

Frank's smiled was smug. "I really am. Answer my question."

Okay; she'd do her best, but she wasn't ready yet. "I don't know. I miss him. I feel better when he's with me. That makes me nervous, though. And I don't understand the need for the label and the ink and all that crap. Frank, it's simple. I need to lead my own life. I can't get sucked up into someone else's. I just can't."

Frank shrugged. "So don't. I didn't. I don't go to the clubhouse often. Sons come out to our place a lot, but that's my house; I run that show. I own a business. I have the life I want. And I can explain the need for both the label and the ink really easily, if you want to hear it. It's straightforward, makes some sense. Think about what the Sons do. You know they're into some dicey shit, right?"

Desi felt a little calmer. This topic was more general and gave her some room to breathe. "Tig doesn't talk much about that, but yes. I have what I consider a respectable understanding of how outlaw bikers spend their days."

"Good. Old ladies—they know a lot. It matters that the club can trust them. A Son claims a woman like that, he's saying, _We can trust her_. _She won't hurt us_. Des, it's a huge deal. That Tig did it without knowing you'd accept—he stuck his neck way out. I get the impression he did it to keep you protected. And you will be."

From where she was standing, whatever protection they could offer seemed to be negated by the risk they represented. "Sweets, you were attacked and almost killed a couple of years ago. Doesn't sound like you were protected then."

"That wasn't the Sons. That was Gemma's old man's crew. The Sons _rescued_ us. The whole club. I'm not saying you won't be at risk—bad shit happens. But you're at risk already. You just don't have all the protection you could have. And the ink thing? I did my own, when I was ready. You know that. But it's not as much about branding property as it's about, I don't know, belonging, I guess. Affiliation. All the guys have Reapers. Their old ladies have crows. Just means you're part of the family, and you're proud of it. Yes, it also means that you're with a particular Son—but that's actually damn useful when other charters are around. The guys are big and can get handsy and insistent, but they see a crow and they back right off. Never saw a Son who got so fucked up he didn't back away from a woman bearing a crow. So the ink is protection more than property. Took me a while to get that, too."

She reached out and caught Desi's hand in hers. Desi was struck by the gesture—their positions had really switched in this moment. "Okay, Des. That's my SAMCRO pitch. None of that matters a tiny shit unless you want to be with Tig. So that's the question. If you don't, I'm shutting up. If you do, then I'm telling you to be the punk I know you still are, take what you want, and do the old lady thing your own fucking way. They won't know what hit 'em."

Desi was listening, and she was feeling some anxiety about the Sons ebb away. But she still could not see where a life with Tig would lead her. "Frank, I can't see it. I need to be able to see how things will change for me—how I'll change—and I can't see it."

"What makes you think you get to see that? That's pretty fucking arrogant, Des. Nobody gets that. I know you thought you had it before, but I'm sorry. You didn't. Look where you are. Think about what happened. You didn't see any of it coming. We don't get to know. You have to do the best you can anyway. Jesus, are you seriously sitting around waiting to see the future? Then you should get comfortable, because you're staying put until you croak."

-oOo-

As afternoon was greying into evening that same day, Desi sat in her rental Corvette, parked along the curb on a street in Charming. She was trying to think through the past few days—the past few months, really. It was time to stop running in place like a hamster in a wheel and take some kind of step forward on a path she'd chosen. She was beginning to think it didn't matter what path, so long as she'd made a conscious choice to start down it and stopped all the damn vacillating.

Teller-Morrow was two blocks down this road. She'd gotten herself all the way here, sure what she wanted, and then she'd recoiled at the thought of the step she was taking. Her life had been in no one's hands but her own for 25 years. Was this really the right way to start rebuilding?

She didn't know. But there was something—someone—here she wanted, and he was the only thing she was sure she wanted. That felt significant. She hoped it was. Frank was right, though, she needed to stop thinking of uncertainty as something to be avoided at all costs. Not all risks could be calculated. Thinking they could be had created in her a blind spot big enough to destroy her whole life.

She started the engine and pulled back into the street.

She pulled into the lot just as they were pulling down the bay doors, closing up the garage for the day. She looked over and saw Tig, his arm upraised, his hand on the chain that would pull one of the doors down. He stood motionless, staring at her. Opening the car door, she stepped out—suddenly, uncharacteristically, worried about how she looked—and swung the door solidly shut so she could lean on it.

Tig let go of the chain and walked her way. Then, as he'd cleared about half the distance between them, he stopped, stood for a few seconds, never taking his eyes off her, and suddenly made a turn and headed for the clubhouse.

Desi was dumbstruck. She'd been prepared for him to turn his back on her. She'd been prepared for him to come to her—which is what she'd thought he was doing. Now she had no idea what to do. She watched him walk to the clubhouse, trying to understand.

He reached the door. Her thoughts were in an uproar; she couldn't grab even one and give it proper consideration. She watched him pause, then turn back to her and pause again. Finally, he strode her way, this time without hesitation, until he was standing before her. Her heart beat threadily.

"What do you need, doll?"

She wondered what the right answer to that question was. She needed a lot. She needed to deal with Raven. Figure out a life for herself. Find her strength. Find her calm. She couldn't do any of that right this minute, though. So she answered simply, "You."

He flinched at that. "What?"

"I'm sorry. I screwed up. I need you. I love you." She was shocked at how much courage it had taken to speak those four simple sentences, and at how relieved she felt now. Even if he told her to get back in the 'Vette and drive away, she didn't think she'd lose all of that relief.

But he was grinning at her. "Desi. Ah, Desi. You my old lady?"

She nodded. "If that's what you want."

He reached out and traced the vine on her face. "Is it what you want?"

Nodding again, swallowing back the tremor she felt in her throat, she said, "It is. I'm scared—you're right about that—but I want it. We'll figure it out, right?"

"Right, baby. We will. Trust me." He pulled her close and kissed her hard. When she hooked her arms around his neck and kissed him back, he slid his hands to her thighs and lifted her off the ground.

She wrapped her legs around his waist and let him carry her into the clubhouse.


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: **I thought these two deserved a break for some lemons. The tart kind. Because they're Tig and Desi. I hope you agree.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy

* * *

**CHAPTER 27:  
**"Everlong," Foo Fighters

Going to Europe with Desi had been a genius idea. It gave them some time away from the pressures between them at exactly the point when Desi had finally opened herself to a commitment with him, and it got her distracted from Raven while the Sons tried to work out a way to help her solve that problem.

The outlook for that had improved significantly, since Jax, Bobby, and Chibs had met with Romeo and Luis. Romeo had been open to the idea that Raven needed to be dealt with. Apparently, the trouble he caused the cartel was continual and often high profile. Burning down historical buildings in the state capitol—buildings owned by a high-profile businesswoman and associate of the mayor—was his highest profile fuckup, and he was on the run from his own family as well as—probably more than—Desi.

Getting Toad's nephew back from JoJo was more complicated, but Romeo had agreed to bring the whole situation to Miguel and try to broker a deal that would include the kid. Now there was nothing to do but wait, and that wait might be weeks.

The perfect chance to get Desi the fuck out of California. But only for a while. And when they got back, he was getting her settled.

Now, though, they were having a fucking blast. Tig couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so truly relaxed—and not because he was fucked up, but because he was content and enjoying himself. Their plans were to spend a couple of weeks in France, then head to the UK, where Tig would check in at the charters in Newcastle and Manchester, and then to Belfast. After that, they'd see where they stood. There was lots more Europe, and Desi had rented a little Paris apartment for six weeks, so they could go back there, too, if they wanted.

They'd been using the apartment as their home base as they rode around France. She had friends in that neighborhood, and they'd all accepted Tig without question. They all spoke English, but he loved listening to her speak French. Goddamn, that was hot. He'd walked around for days with a monumental hard-on. And then at night, holy shit, had they fucked. Also in the day. In the apartment. In a couple of museums. On the subway. On a boat in the Seine. In a fancy garden. On the side of the road. On a country riverbank. Desi recovered her playful spirit in France.

One day, toward the end of the second week, they were walking in Paris, one of Desi's favorite things to do. It was a part of the city they hadn't been to yet. Desi knew the neighborhoods and what each was known for, but to Tig it was all just Paris, and he didn't always know quite where they in relation to where they'd been. He'd learned that Desi, who was used to doing things on her own, had a tendency to wander off, and on a couple of occasions, Tig had turned around, not seen her, and felt immediately dislocated. So he'd begun to keep a very sharp eye on his old lady, lest she leave him behind.

On this day, they were in some kind of funky shopping area, with shops selling old clothes, musty books, weird curios. She wasn't really a shopper, but she liked to roam in shops like these, and he'd found them fairly interesting, too. The best thing about them? Lots of dark, secluded corners.

As he was nearing his limit for browsing, she pulled him into one plain-looking shop. He opened his mouth to make some kind of protest—or maybe just a suggestion that it was time to start with the drinking part of the day—and his jaw snapped shut as he looked around.

Desi came up close and slid her hands into the front pockets of his jeans. "You've been very patient today, and you deserve a reward. Want to pick out some toys?"

She'd brought him into a large, well stocked sex shop. And, oh, look in the back. Lingerie. Tig's attitude about shopping did a 180. Desi handed him a shopping basket and took one for herself. "Let's see what kind of trouble we can get up to in here."

Goddamn, he loved this woman. His old lady. "Desi, Desi, Desi. You got no idea what kind of trouble I can get up to in a place like this." He was grinning so broadly his cheeks ached.

She took his hand and led him deeper into the store. "So, where would you like to start?"

The first thing they came to was a large glass case full of vibrators and dildos. A slim young man in leather chaps and a studded bondage harness stood behind it. Tig knew how to get a vibrator on the list of things he could use on Desi, so he leaned over the case and inspected the options closely while she talked to the sales guy in French.

Engrossed, he felt her hand on his back. "See anything you like?"

He nodded. "A few. Like that one." He put his finger on the glass over a bright pink model with three prongs. It was beautiful, and he could see it in her.

Desi laughed. "You and your fascination with my ass." She spoke a few words to the clerk, and he slid back the shelf and brought Tig's choice out. He picked it up. It was made from jellied plastic, cool to the touch. He looked at Desi; she just smirked and turned back to the clerk.

"_Nous allons acheter celui-là_." Whatever she'd said, the clerk smiled and nodded, then turned to the stocked shelves behind him (nothing under those chaps) and handed Tig a boxed version of the vibe he'd picked. Desi took it and put it in the basket she had hanging over her arm like Little Red Riding Hood.

But he wasn't done. "How about that one, too?"

Desi followed his finger, then stepped back, her brow furrowed, but still her lopsided, Mona Lisa smile on her face.

He was indicating a remote control bullet vibe. He didn't know if he could get her to agree to that—in fact he thought the forecast wasn't great—but she'd been relaxed and happy the whole trip. Things had never been better, and as soon as he'd seen that vibe, he'd been beset by the thought of putting it in her and then walking around Paris—_riding_ around, even—with that remote control in his possession.

"Come on, baby. It'll be good." But she shook her head.

"I'm not giving you that kind of control, love." Disappointed despite his low expectations, he pouted, and she laughed. "Okay. We can buy it, if you want, but only to have if we find somebody to play with."

Some of Desi's friends here in Paris were of a similar persuasion, and she'd put the word out that they were interested in a female bondage submissive. Tig wanted to use the vibe on Desi, but his odds of that were better if they owned it, so he nodded, and she asked the clerk for a boxed one. She thanked him, and they moved on.

Half an hour later, her basket was full, and his was getting there. She'd selected some things that boggled his mind a little—including a bright orange, inflatable, vibrating fuck chair with an attached dildo. Three different kinds of bondage straps. Floggers with satin, velvet, and suede tails. A leather riding crop.

They'd seen just about everything, Tig thought, except that lingerie, but then Desi pulled him through a beaded curtain into another room. Whereupon he began to hyperventilate and get dizzy. He dropped his basket and backed out through the curtain.

Desi followed right with him. He bent over, his hands on his knees, and tried to get his equilibrium back. "Tig? Love, what's wrong?" She put their baskets down—she must have picked his up—and combed her hand through his hair.

When he felt like the attack had passed, he stood up, feeling embarrassed. "Sorry, Des. I have a thing with dolls. Freak me out."

The room had been full of life-size, lifelike sex dolls, similar to the kind Georgie Caruso had been planned to bring to the States, in there, male and female. A great big dose of panic for Tig. Those things were so much freakier than regular dolls, because they looked so close to real—and they turned him on, too. His head was very confused; he rubbed his eyes.

Desi chuckled softly and kissed his head. "Sorry, love. I thought you'd like those. They're very lifelike. They have human weight, and the really expensive ones have human hair. Everywhere. You can even make them body temperature. Well, unless you like them cooler. Some people like room temperature, I hear."

He dropped his hands and gaped at her. She was _smirking_ at him. Did she know? Had someone told her? She knew! Fucking Juice! And he couldn't believe she was _teasing_ him about it. "Can we stop talking about this?"

Now she laughed outright. Her laugh, deep and husky, had been one of his favorite sounds since he'd first heard it—he felt it straight in his cock. It had changed since the fire, acquired a rough edge. Even sexier, in other words.

"Sorry, Tiggy. Didn't mean to freak you out. Let's move on." She hooked her arm around his and led him to the lingerie. Okay, she was forgiven.

Another hour later, their two full baskets were waiting for them at the sales counter, and they were back in one of the fitting rooms, where Desi was trying on several different sets of lingerie, and some really hardcore shoes, too. Well, she had been. Currently, she was naked but for a pair of clear platform boots she'd tried on, pressed front-first on the middle section of a big, ornate three-way mirror, and Tig, also naked, was up to his hilt inside her.

Desi had her hands hooked over the top of the mirror, and the muscles in her back flexed beautifully. But Tig was most entranced by the view he had from all three mirrors—he could watch himself fuck her from both sides, and from the front he had a view of her beautiful, inked tits flattened on the glass.

Hot as hell.

She had her head tipped down, her forehead on the glass, and he could see her expressions, too. She was totally into it, not holding back at all, just letting him make her feel good. He liked her best this way, but she didn't let go like this often.

He was slamming into her rhythmically, his hands hooked over her hips, loving the sound of their bodies slapping together. Then he felt a shift in the way her muscles squeezed around his cock, and the timbre of her moans changed. It was what he was waiting for. He picked up his pace, sliding one hand from her hip, up her spine, to grip the back of her neck.

"Fuck, Tig. Oh, God, yeah. Oh. Oh. Oh." Her words came out on gasping breaths—gasps not of strained respiration but of ecstasy—and he slid his hand back down her spine, over her ass, and down her thigh. There, he grabbed her leg and pulled it up, bent at the knee, pressed to the mirror. It changed the angle and depth of his penetration, and she went off instantly, with a long, throaty moan. She arched back, and he pulled her to him, continuing his thrusts, now moving in a frenzy as he pulled her off the floor completely.

When they were both finished, he set Desi down and they rested together on the mirror. Tig could hear the sounds of another couple in another fitting room, and he chuckled. Interesting store. "Okay, baby. _This_ is my kind of shopping." He pushed off the mirror and pulled out of her.

They were going to need another suitcase to get all their toys home. Probably give some airport baggage grunt one helluva thrill.

-oOo-

They ate alone at the apartment that night. Desi made some casserole thing. She'd told him what it was, but he couldn't remember. It had red meat in it, it was hot, and it was good—and that was all he cared about. She'd even convinced him to share a bottle of red wine with her. Tig didn't get wine. He didn't even get wine glasses—couldn't get a good hold on them without looking like a pussy. She'd laughed at him and poured his into a regular bar glass. That was better, except that it had wine in it.

The apartment had a little balcony off the living room, and after dinner they sat out there together and looked over the city. They had a bit of a view of the Seine and could hear the boats on the water. It was romantic—even Tig could feel that. He was sitting on a balcony in fucking Paris, with his arm around his woman, his old lady, who'd just cooked him fucking dinner.

And to add just the right kind of spin to it, they'd spent the afternoon in a kink shop.

Life was _good_.

He squeezed her close and laughed. Desi had been resting her head on his shoulder; now she sat up and gave him a look. "What's funny?"

"Nothin', baby. I'm just feeling good." Sliding his hand around her neck, he leaned down and kissed her. She moaned and shifted onto his lap as she opened her mouth wide and invited his tongue in. With a grunt, he pushed his hand under her top as he deepened the kiss; at the same time, she worked open the buttons on his shirt.

When he felt her hands on his chest, he tore his mouth away, seriously worked up. "Baby, fucking you right here would be fantastic, but we have new toys. Let's go to bed."

Giving him a saucy wink, she stood and walked into the apartment, stripping clothes off and tossing them back at him as she went. He shed his clothes as he followed her.

No, life was _great_.

When he got to the bedroom, she was standing naked by the fireplace, her back to him. The apartment was old—centuries old, even. Lots of Paris was so old that Tig couldn't quite get his head around it. Here, the floors were wood parquet, the rooms were small, the windows were huge, and almost every room had a marble fireplace. This room, the bedroom, also had a brass four-poster bed draped with heavy red fabric.

Tig could think of a lot of interesting things to do with those posts. Not with Desi; she'd never go for it. But if they found someone to play with. Definitely then.

Now, though, he walked up behind her; she watched him come, looking over her shoulder. He splayed his fingers across her shoulders and dragged them down, tapering to the small of her back and then circling her waist. She stretched like a cat, and he pulled her tight to his chest.

His good mood and sense of peace had him daunted. He couldn't remember a time in his life when he'd felt real happiness. Ever. Until now. It made his blood buzz. It made him uneasy, too. If he lost this—if he lost her—he didn't know how he'd make it back.

"God, Desi. I love you, baby." He laid his forehead on her shoulder.

Desi turned in his arms, and he lifted his head. Bringing her hands up to hold his face, she stared intently into his eyes. Her eyes, with their swirling starburst pattern of colors, seemed to be seeking something from him. Checking the truth of his words, maybe. They were true. He'd never spoken truer.

She pulled his face to hers, bringing them cheek to cheek. Into his ear, she whispered, "Okay, love. Get the lube."

He jerked back, unwilling to believe his ears and get his hopes up. But his heart, ignoring his reserve, was pounding already with the possibility. "Desi?"

She smiled. "Do you still want that?"

Did he still want that! Holy shit! "Jesus, baby. _Yeah_. You sure?"

"I'm sure."

Overcome, he took her into an embrace first. He'd wanted this since he'd first watched her ass walk away from him. He dreamed about it. She had a gorgeous, round ass, and there was really nothing like being up a beautiful ass—the visual itself was spectacular, but the tight fit was indescribable. But wanting Desi's ass was much more than sex, and it had been more than sex for a long time—since the day they'd played with the blue vibe and she'd thrown him out for going too far.

Since then, it had been about what he meant to her. It had been about her letting him into her life. She'd framed it from the start as a matter of trust. Every time she denied him, she'd been saying she didn't trust him. And it had hurt more every time. He'd had no intention of ever asking again.

But she'd just _offered_. He didn't think she could have done anything to let him know more clearly that she was his—not even take his ink. She'd said that she'd need to trust him unreservedly first. _Unreservedly_.

He would make sure he deserved that. Now, though, he said it again. "I love you."

She traced her fingers over his beard. "And I love you." He picked her up and carried her to the bed.

As soon as he set her down, she rolled to her knees and sat back on her heels, watching him. He went to the bags holding the day's purchases and rifled through until he found the lube. The bullet vibe was in there, too, and the thought occurred to him that using that right now would be perfect, but he'd learned a few things in year-plus that he and Desi had been doing their dance, and he was not about to fuck this up.

He brought the lube over and got onto the bed, kneeling behind her. He set the bottle down and put his hands on her shoulders, leaning in to kiss her scar. She twitched a little; she always did when he touched that scar, front or back. She never said anything, though, and the scar was important to him. He wouldn't have been able to explain it—he didn't understand it—but it felt somehow like he was connected to her through it.

Gently, lovingly, he pushed her forward, and she put her hands down and rose up off her heels. Sweet Jesus, there she was. He ran his hands over the swells of her cheeks, down the backs of her firm thighs, curling his hands around them and pushing back up until his thumbs met against the wet, velvety soft heat of her. As his fingers played at her folds, she gasped and rocked back. "Tig."

"Yeah, baby?" He leaned forward and pressed lingering kisses to each cheek.

"Come on." She shook her hips a little.

He was thrilled to oblige. His cock was positively straining to get to her. He picked up the lube and squeezed a little dollop onto his fingers, rubbing it between them to warm it. Then he pressed his fingers to the lovely, ruched ring of her anus and massaged her gently. She moaned huskily, and he understood that this was more than something she was doing for him. It was something she wanted for herself as well. He closed his eyes and took a calming breath before reaching for the lube again to coat himself.

He rose up on his knees behind her, feeling his legs tremble at the prospect of this act. One hand around his cock, the other on her ass, his thumb resting on the focus of his need, he asked, "You ready, Des?"

She looked back at him. "I'm ready, love. Go slow."

"So slow. I don't want to hurt you. You say when. No—say Tulsa." He pushed his thumb into her, and she arched her back downward, raising her ass to him. Then he slid his forefinger in and rubbed it together with his thumb, easing her open. He heard her taking deep, rhythmic breaths. He heard no strain in the sound.

He pulled his finger and thumb slowly out of her and replaced them with his cock. Gripping himself with one hand and her hip with the other, he pushed in, slowly but steadily, not stopping, but prepared to do so if that's what she wanted. He listened. But then he felt her ass against his belly and thighs; he was fully ensconced in her, and she hadn't stopped him. The only sounds she'd made were gasps of pleasure.

"Oh, God, Desi. My God. You feel—." There was no word for how she felt. No word could possibly do it justice. She was hot and tight, the entire length of his cock snugged firmly inside her. Then she clamped her muscles around him even more, and he thought he might pass out from the pleasure. But it was so much more than that. This was her giving herself to him. Finally. _Unreservedly_. He felt the lump rising in his throat, and his eyes were wet before he even realized the emotion was on him so strongly.

He'd barely moved since he'd filled her; now she rocked forward, drawing him a few inches out of her. He pulled her back and flexed his hips, making her cry out and himself groan as he hit home again. And then he started to really move—still slowly but steadily, taking care, paying attention to her. But she was moving against his rhythm, making his thrusts more intense. He heard her gasping breaths become soft, keening moans, and he let go of her hips and dropped over her, his hands on either side of her, his forehead on her back.

"Baby, this is—this is—. Desi. Ah, Desi." He caught the back of her right knee, pushing her leg forward until she was resting on it, her forehead hovering on the mattress. The shift and stretch of her body was mirrored inside her, around him, and when he thrust into her again, they both yelled in tandem.

He was losing his head; he was spinning in a maelstrom of sensation and emotion. Breathing so hard he thought he was hyperventilating, he picked up his pace, struggling to remember to listen for her. But she only cried out and surged back against him, in no distress. He reached around and pressed a hand between her legs. Her juices dripped into his hand as he began to rub hard circles on her clit—and then she dropped her face into a pillow and screamed as her whole body seemed to bear down around him. She kept coming, and he went faster until he hit his own peak. She was still going when he let loose inside her.

When, finally, they'd both finished, Tig pulled slowly back, still reveling in the firm grip of her body around him. She gasped as he finally pulled out of her, and then she relaxed completely, lying prone on the bed. He dropped to her side, draping himself over her, laying his head on her shoulder. "Baby, are you okay?"

She nodded, her breathing heavy but smooth. "I am. Hey—you wanted to play with toys, though."

"Don't care. This was better." He felt the lump in his throat again, and he swallowed it away. "Thank you."

She rolled to her back without making him move, her body sliding along his as she shifted. With a kiss to his cheek, she said. "It was good."

"No, Des. It was perfect."


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: **More _Limones à la Tig et Desi _

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 28  
**"Here in My Room," Incubus

Desi woke and stretched luxuriously. The fall had been warm in France. The tall windows were open, and there was a soft breeze coming through, lifting the long, white curtains to waft across the room. It was still early, but the sky was greyer than she would have expected. The day looked to be a bit overcast. Rain, maybe. A good day to stay in. They'd be leaving Paris after the weekend, at least for a little while, for a week or so in the UK. Tig would have to break his kutte out; they were going to visit some charters. Desi was interested to see how other Sons charters worked.

But today, maybe staying in, cuddling in bed. She'd see if Georges, Luc, Céline, and the others might join them for a late supper, too. That sounded like a good day. It had been a good trip all around. Desi hardly thought of Raven and the disaster her life in California was. Here, she felt relaxed and happy. Close to Tig. She wished there were a way she could convince him to stay, but she knew he would not. Charming was where he belonged. He was settled—in ways she'd _never_ been. It fell to her to figure out how to make a space for herself in his world.

Better not to think about it now, though. Now she was happy, in love, and in Paris.

She felt good. A little sore, but good. It had been a long time—a _long_ time—since she'd fucked as hard as she and Tig had fucked the night before. They'd gone strong until the wee hours, though he hadn't gone up her ass again. His cock was not small, and there would need to be some recovery time between those sessions. He was only the second man who'd ever gone up her ass. She liked anal play a lot—plugs, vibes, beads—but what had happened last night . . . well, in some ways, important ways, what had happened with Tig was a first. He had been shockingly careful and gentle, and it had been beautifully intense. Now she had some feelings to sort out about it.

He was lying next to her, sleeping deeply, on his stomach. He'd kicked the covers away, and his body was exposed to her gaze. Desi scooted closer to him, hooked one leg over his, and, propped on her elbow, undertook a careful exploration of his body. It wasn't the first time. He had a fascinating body. Considering that he was only a few years from 60, he had a phenomenal body, fit and nicely shaped. Not sharply cut, but muscular and, well, sexy. Maybe it was her own age, but she found the grey hair on his chest powerfully distracting.

She wasn't looking at his chest now, though. She was looking at his firm back, his tight ass, his strong legs. As sexy as his shape was, what Desi found most fascinating were his scars. He had several—a round scar on the back of his left shoulder, a long, straight one under his left arm and onto his back. A couple of smaller marks on the right side of his lower back, and two fairly impressive scars on his right buttock. One didn't look like it had been taken care of especially well.

The other was obviously a human bite mark. This, above all his other scars, truly intrigued her. She hadn't asked. Asking about a person's physical scars was not a great deal different, in Desi's estimation, from asking about a person's psychological or emotional scars. It was an intrusion. She hadn't asked about his scars for the same reason that she'd taken so long to ask about Dawn's initials on his cuffs. And once she'd asked about that and learned Dawn's story, her curiosity about his scars had dwindled significantly.

Not her fascination, though. Not that.

Leaning on his back now, she traced the lines of all of his scars. She caressed his whole back, in fact, and his ass and legs. Feeling horny, she moved from using her hands to using her mouth and tongue, licking and kissing him all over. He was starting to wake up, his body flexing. He moaned a little and turned his head toward her, but he didn't open his eyes. When she got to the human bite, feeling whimsical, she bit it.

Then he woke up. He jumped and flipped over, almost sending her off the bed. "What the fuck?!"

She caught herself and resettled to sit facing him, her legs folded. "Sorry, love. I was just exploring a little."

He was relaxing again, but his eyes were still hot. "Exploring what? Jesus, Des."

She was quite horny; rolling to her knees, she crawled between his legs, moving up his body until he was flat on his back and she was propped on her hands over him. "Your scars. I'm fascinated."

"Not that interesting, baby. They're just scars." He slid his hands up her arms and over her shoulders, turning them over to drag his knuckles over her breasts. She moaned and sat back to give him better access.

Sitting on her heels between his legs, she scratched her nails gently over his thighs and hips, watching his cock swell and rise before her. "You have a human bite mark on your ass. There's gotta be a story."

"Got bit." He pinched her nipples. "Now shut up." He grabbed his cock at the base, obviously holding it steady for her, and she moved up and slid down on it. He groaned, and she clenched her muscles around him, watching his eyes roll back as she did so.

"It's not so easy to get me to shut up, love." She rose up and slid back down on him, loving the fullness of him inside her. He took her ass in both hands and squeezed.

"Why are you so curious all of a sudden? Can't be the first time you've seen 'em." He was moving under her, his hands pulling at her ass, trying to get her to follow his rhythm.

She traced her fingers over his mouth and around his goatee, then up over his jaw and into his hair. "No. It's just the first time I feel like we're close enough that I can ask."

Tig stopped moving and considered her, a wrinkle in his brow. She stopped moving, too, and returned his look.

"Okay, Des. I'll tell you. Can we finish what we're doing here, though?"

She doubled her pace, making him grunt. "Absolutely."

-oOo-

It took them a while to finish, but finally they were spent and lying tangled together, recovering. Tucked against his chest, Desi said, "Okay. About those scars."

Tig laughed. "Like I said, not that interesting." He untangled from her and sat up, turning his back to her and lifting his left arm. "I got shot here. Big firefight, actually. Juice was hurt in it, too. How he got the scar on his neck." He put his arm down and looked into her eyes. "I was distracted. I was killing Pope at the time."

Pope was Tig's safe word. Desi didn't understand. "Pope?"

"Damon Pope. The man who killed Dawnie."

She felt sick. Reaching out to put her hand over his where it rested on the bed, she said, "Tig, your safe word is the name of the man who killed your daughter?"

With a sad little lift of the corner of his mouth, he shrugged. "You told me to pick a word I'd never say in ecstasy."

"Jesus, love. That's not how it's supposed to work."

He shrugged again, and Desi could tell he was done with the topic. He continued on with the description of his scars. "I was wearing a vest, but a bullet went in through the armhole and went through my lung, then lodged in the inside of the vest in front. Have another, small scar there." She'd seen that one, too. He turned to look at her. "I have some experience with having breathing trouble. Not like yours, but I know it sucks."

He reached his arm across his chest and hooked his hand over his left shoulder, his fingers on the small, round scar there. "Got shot here, too, with a small caliber rifle. That one was a misunderstanding." He grinned mischievously. Then he turned and gestured awkwardly to the scars on his lower back. "Knife. Not too bad, actually. Probably only scarred because I didn't do anything with them. They're the oldest scars I have."

Finally, he stretched out on his side, presenting her with the right side of his ass. "Last but not least: my ass. The nasty one on the bottom is a dog bite. Long, not interesting story. The human bite mark is what it looks like. Guy bit me. My ass was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

She laughed. "Obviously. Okay, I won't push for more." She leaned over and kissed the bite marks, again nipping gently. He flinched and looked back at her. With a smile, she whispered, "Thank you for telling me." He rolled to his back, and she lay down alongside him. "There's a lot of guns and knives in your life, isn't there?"

She felt his hand on her head, twirling through her hair. "Yeah, Des. A lot. Not as much now as in the past, but it'll heat up again soon. I been doing this a long time. It goes in cycles." He tipped his head down to look at her. "You understand what the Sons are, right? What I do?"

Desi nodded. "Enough. Not sure how much you want me to know."

"JT—that's Jax's old man, the one who started the Sons—he used to say that there were only two ways to make it work with an old lady. Tell her everything or tell her nothing. Which one do you want to be?"

It wasn't even a question. In the dark was no place Desi ever wanted to be. "Everything. Tell me everything."

He kissed her forehead. "Okay. Fair enough."

-oOo-

They did spend most of that rainy day in bed, fucking, talking, reading, drinking. Tig told her a lot about the Sons. Nothing that shocked her, but a few things that surprised her. Then, later, they did have a little dinner party with Desi's friends. Georges, her friend in the know about the Paris kink scene, brought a new friend. Louise was young and sweet-looking, with shoulder-length auburn hair and green eyes. She was long-limbed and slender, with small, pert breasts, a body style Desi found particularly attractive.

When the evening was over, she got Louise's number as Georges helped her into her jacket. Then, as Tig helped Desi clear the glasses and dishes, she asked him, "What did you think of Louise?"

Tig set the glasses he was carrying in the sink. "That was the redhead, right? She didn't really speak much English, did she?"

That was true. Her English was elementary and heavily accented. "No, not much. She likes to play, though, and she's interested. Are you?"

That had Tig's attention. He came over and held her by the hips. "Really? Are you interested?" He leaned down and pressed his open mouth to her neck, sucking lightly.

With a little moan, Desi said, "I am. I thought she was lovely."

"Did she make you hot?" Now he was nibbling her jawline, his thumbs lightly rubbing over her belly.

"She did."

"Do you want to fuck her?" He whispered in her ear, hitting the word "fuck" a little harder.

"I do."

His mouth over hers, he whispered, "Do you want to watch me fuck her?"

"Very much."

"Oh, baby, you are such a freak." He claimed her mouth with passionate insistence. She was excited that they would play again, that she would be able to play with a woman again. But right now, she wanted to fuck her man. She pulled away and grabbed him by the hand, leading him to the bedroom, leaving the party mess for the morning.

-oOo-

She called Louise the next day and, after a detailed conversation about her preferences and limits, they arranged for her to join them for after dinner cocktails and play that evening. When she got off the phone, she explained to Tig how the evening would go, what he would be able to do, and what he would not be able to do. Desi had been pleased to see that he'd been a little surprised at some of it.

Then Tig and Desi took a ride to Giverny and spent the day wandering Monet's gardens. Tig was all about the ride, but Desi noticed that he, too, was awed by the natural beauty there. And, of course, he'd found a place to fuck. Desi was fairly certain that Tig's primary memories of this trip would be the locations at which he'd been inside her.

Once they were back, they walked to the market and picked up some bread and cheese and a box of condoms. They had plenty of wine and liquor at the apartment.

When Louise arrived, they didn't linger long over drinks. The conversation was stilted, since Tig had only a few words of French and Louise's English wasn't dramatically better. It put Desi in the position of translator, which got awkward quickly. So, after two drinks and a few bites of cheese and crusty bread, Desi suggested that they move the evening into the bedroom. Louis immediately stood and took off her clothes.

When she'd spoken with Louise on the phone earlier in the day, Desi had ascertained that she was a particular fan of being flogged. She did enjoy spanking as well, but preferred whips and floggers to paddles and mitts. She liked anal penetration. And, of course, she wanted to be bound. She preferred to be bound prone. Samantha had preferred the supine position.

When they all three went into the bedroom, Desi stripped the bed down to the bottom sheet. She told Louise to lie down on her stomach with her head at the head of the bed, and then she turned to Tig. "Would you like to bind her?" When he grinned and nodded, she gave him a set of red velvet cords from their shopping trip. Earlier, he'd shown her how he tied restraints—he did a decent job, snug but not painful, and easily released.

As Tig brought the cords to the four poster bed, Desi asked her, "_Louise, quel est ton mot de sécurité?_" Louise lifted her head and said, "_Licorne_."

Desi smiled. "_Ah, oui. Merci_." She turned to Tig. "Her safe word is "_licorne_."

"Licorne. Got it." Tig got to the business of binding Louise to the bed. Desi slid a couple of pillows under her hips as well. While Tig was still working the velvet cords, Desi arrayed the various striking devices on the chest at the end of the bed and then stripped.

When Desi told Tig earlier in the day that Louise would want to be flogged, she had asked him to try the different floggers they'd bought on himself, striking his own belly and legs to get a sense of what kinds of strokes, pressures, and speeds created what kinds of sensations. He'd scoffed and told her he'd used lots of different floggers. But when she'd asked if he'd ever _been_ flogged, he'd said no. She'd reminded him of the terms—nothing he hadn't felt himself.

So he'd done it. And Desi had relished his shock. She'd been shocked herself. His erratic sense of empathy was sometimes stupefying, especially since he was fairly well keyed into her. But he'd gone through his life avidly experimenting on women without even being curious about how or why the things he did to them made them react the way they did.

She'd taken note, too, that the suede flogger striking his belly had made him very hard. The others had not, and the crop had pissed him off, but the suede flogger had his interest. She'd filed that piece of information away.

Tig had finished binding Louise, and he stepped away, stripped, and sat down in a chair near the bed. They'd agreed that Desi would start. Tig wanted to watch first. Desi set the timer on her phone to 45 minutes. She showed Louise and pressed start, then set the phone on a table near the bed and climbed on, kneeling between Louise's legs.

First, she ran her hands all over Louise's body, starting lightly, then increasing the pressure with each pass. She had an absolutely beautiful body, firm and supple under Desi's hands. Louise moaned and squirmed under the attention, and Desi stopped. "_Arrêtez. Ne bougez pas_." When Louise was still again, Desi resumed, now running her tongue over Louise's silky skin. Desi was so turned on her pussy was already pulsing in time with her heart. When she had trailed her tongue and lips over her limbs and torso, she lay fully on top of Louise, tucking her head over her shoulder to kiss her deeply.

She heard Tig groan, and she pushed herself back to kneel between Louise's legs. Tig looked rapacious. He was stroking himself, sweating, his eyes eager and intense. She thought about inviting him in, but decided to wait a bit longer. He seemed to be enjoying himself where he was.

She picked up the satin flogger first.

Louise had not been exaggerating when she'd said she liked to be flogged. Desi had not denied her release, and Louise had come twice already, simply from flogging. Her back and ass were a lovely shade of pale pink, not too bright, after the satin and suede floggers. Now Desi picked up the crop. She felt Tig stand up behind her. He reached around her and put his hand around the crop.

"I want this one." An alarm chimed in Desi's head. He'd decided to join in when she picked up the toy that he'd seriously disliked feeling on himself. But he'd tried it. He'd met the terms.

She let him have the crop. "Be careful. Respect her safe word. _Licorne_." He nodded. She stepped back and watched him.

He definitely took it to a new level. Desi had been careful; Louise was a new playmate, and Desi was always especially careful when she had no more to go on than the submissive's verbal explanation of her preferences and limits. Tig was not being careful. He was being rough. Striking her repeatedly in the same place, striking sharply. But Louise was, by all markers, into it. Then he struck her between the legs, and she came hard, shaking the bed. He looked triumphant. Ferocious.

Sensing all the ways that this experience could take a bad turn, Desi took the crop from him and handed him a jar of spanking balm. "See how red she is? Time to stop. Rub this—gently—over her skin."

He took the balm, but said, "She didn't say her safe word."

"I know. It's time to move to the next thing, though." He nodded and soothed the balm into Louise's tender skin. Desi was hoping that Tig would calm down some as he did this gentle thing, and he did. When Louise breathed a relieved moan, he asked her, "Feel good, doll?" Seeming to understand, she smiled and nodded.

When he'd eased the cream all over her back, ass, and legs, Tig set the jar aside and knelt between Louise's legs, looking at Desi, waiting for the next thing. She brought vibrating anal beads, lube, and a condom to the bed. She showed Louise what she had, and asked "_Bien_? _Te veux qu'il te foutre?"_

Louise nodded. "_Oui. S'il vous plaît_."Please. Okay, Desi's alarm bells might have been too tightly calibrated. Everybody seemed to be in a good place. She handed Tig the condom. As he opened the packet and rolled the latex over his cock, Desi lubed the beads and gently inserted them into Louise. She inserted the whole strand, as Louise flexed and squirmed gently. Desi didn't stop her from moving now.

"Holy shit," Tig whispered, watching her. "Des, aren't you gonna get off?" She just smiled. He still didn't quite get what her need was with this kind of play. She was aroused as hell. An orgasm would be nice, of course, but it wasn't her focus. Managing these two was.

"You can fuck her, as you like. I control the beads, though."

Tig settled himself between Louise's legs and grabbed her hips. "Ready, doll?"

Louise lifted her head and looked over her shoulder at Tig. "Ready," she said in her thick accent. Tig pushed fully into her without further ado. Then Desi turned on the beads.

They both reacted. Louise cried out, and Tig shouted. "Jesus Christ!"

Desi asked him, "Is it good?"

"Fuck, yeah!" His eyes closed, his brow furrowed, he slammed hard into Louise. Desi sat on the side of the bed and watched them both, entranced and aroused. This view of Tig fucking was beautiful, really. Occasionally, she changed the setting on the beads, thrilling to their reactions. When she saw that Louise was hitting her peak, she got up, knelt behind Tig, her body pressed to his, moving with him. She reached between his legs and pulled the beads out, steadily but one bead at a time. Louise's orgasm was loud, long, and intense. When she finally began to settle, Tig went off with a shout.

When he relaxed, just for a few seconds, on Louise's back, and then lifted up with a kiss to her shoulder, Desi discovered that she felt the slightest bit jealous.

Interesting.

The phone alarm went off just then, and Desi went around the bed releasing the cords. She'd had timed the session well—she'd felt out of practice, but she thought the whole thing had gone well. It had certainly been edifying. She had new insights into Tig and into herself. Things to think about.

Louise sat up and stretched. When she got up, she walked to Tig and kissed him on the lips. Just a peck, but again Desi felt a little pluck of jealousy. She'd be glad when Louise left. On her way out to the living room, she kissed Desi, too. Then she dressed and left.

When Desi went back into the bedroom, Tig grabbed her and kissed her hard. "God, baby. I need to fuck you right now. That was hot as hell, it was, but the whole time I just wanted to get to you."

Smiling, feeling deeply satisfied and seriously horny, Desi pulled him to the bed.

-oOo-

A few days later, they were riding in Ireland, on their way to SAMBEL, the Belfast charter. They'd already checked in at Newcastle and Manchester in England. There hadn't been much going on at either, but they were happy to host a patch from the mother charter, so they'd spent a few very enjoyable days partying hard. Well, Tig partied hard, and Desi had enjoyed watching him do so. She didn't imbibe to excess. She liked her faculties right where they were.

SAMBEL was bigger than the other charters and looked a little rougher, more outlaw than the English charters had been. And when Seamus, the charter President, had greeted them, he'd pulled Tig aside very quickly to talk business. Desi had ended up on her own, the charge of the old ladies. It was the first time she'd felt set aside, and she didn't like it at all.

She understood that the Sons were a patriarchal organization. No—they were a _misogynistic_ organization. Not a lot of respect for women. She knew that, no matter what kind of spin Frank had tried to put on it. It was one of her chief concerns about becoming seriously committed to Tig, this compartmentalization, where the men went off to do manly things and the women sat around waiting for them to come back from doing them. Desi had not let the fact that she was a woman affect her access to the things she wanted, not one whit. So when Seamus pulled Tig aside, and his old lady had pulled Desi the other direction, literally into the kitchen, Desi had felt a strong spike of rage. Didn't help at all that Tig barely acknowledged what was happening.

She'd stayed calm and hadn't caused a fuss, though. She didn't understand the dynamic fully or what might be the consequences of causing a fuss, but she did know that if she were perceived to be disrespecting Tig in front of the club, those consequences might be bad for both of them. She hated that, too. Here in Belfast, Ireland, she was getting her first real taste of how being involved with a Son would constrain her.

She didn't like it. She wanted to be back in Paris.

When Tig came for her a couple of hours later, a party was heating up around them. She was angry. More than that, she was worried about what was going on between them and whether it was something that could last. She'd been running scenarios through her head all afternoon for the conversation she and Tig needed to have. But it was too loud and too public to have that conversation.

Then he found her. He kissed her, and then he pulled her with him, into and through the clubhouse, back to the room they'd been given for the night. A quiet place. He closed the door, gave them some privacy. Then he said "Okay, Des. I figure you need to let me have it. So let me have it."

Caught entirely off guard, Desi answered simply, "What?"

He pulled her close, his hands on her waist. "I saw the look you gave me when the women walked you back to the kitchen. You're pissed. I figure I'm in for a rant about macho men and barefoot women or something, so here's your chance."

She didn't know what to say. He'd disarmed her. She would never have expected him to recognize what she'd seen, what had happened. He didn't resist it happening, but it meant something—a lot, maybe—that he understood it from her point of view. Even if he was being flippant about it now. Her anger dissipated. None of her scenarios applied; once again, Tig had put her off-center. She looked up into his limpid blue eyes. "Do you understand why that's always going to be hard for me?"

"Yeah, Des. I do. And you need to understand the Sons. We're not gonna change. But you don't have to spend much time around the clubhouse unless you want to, you know. You don't have to be around shit like this. Don't let it get between us. Okay?"

Still astonished that Tig had been so empathetic, she simply nodded. He understood. She couldn't quite get her head around that. It didn't change the Sons, but it changed the two of them.

He grinned impishly. "Good. Now come out there with me, and sit on my lap like a good old lady while I get shitfaced."

An idea struck her. It was a special kind of risk, but she felt the need to reward him or thank him or something. Give him something he wanted. With a smile, she stepped out of his arms. "I have a better idea." She went to her bag, rifled through for a few seconds, and pulled out the bullet vibe.

His eyes caught fire when he saw what she was holding. "Ah, Desi. Baby. Seriously?" He reached out his hand.

She pulled it back, wagging her finger at him. "Ah-ah-ah. I hold the remote. At first, anyway. If you're good—very good—maybe. I'll let you put it in, though, if you want."

Nodding emphatically, he said, "I want. Fuck, I want. You are the hottest woman I've ever known. God."

She smiled, handed him the bullet but not the remote, toed off her boots, and slid off her jeans and underwear. "Get the lube." Standing before him, she spread her legs wide.

"Nah, baby. I have a better idea." He dropped to his knees and went down on her, making her wet, in every definition, with his mouth. Then, when she was panting and beginning to tremble, arousal loosening her joints and making her throb, he pulled back, put the vibe in his mouth for a moment, and slid it gently, deeply into her. She watched. Then he looked up into her downturned face. "How's that, baby?"

She turned on the remote, adjusting it to a low-to-medium setting. He'd positioned it against her g-spot, and she gasped and closed her eyes at the rumbling sensation. "It's good."

"Desi." There was reverence in the way her said her name. She opened her eyes; his look was suddenly serious. "I love you, baby."

She put her hand on his head and drew her fingers through his hair. "I love you, Tig."

Maybe they were figuring things out.

-oOo-

Desi did sit on his lap at the party. He didn't get shitfaced, though. He was too wrapped up in how she was using the remote. He could feel it on his thigh, and he clearly knew when it was on, or when she changed speeds. His hand would grasp her hip hard whenever there was a change. He was getting squirmier than she was. She was in control, keeping the sensation erotic and enjoyable without bringing herself close to orgasm.

Now that they weren't conducting business, the men treated her with regard and respect, and she was enjoying herself. She'd surprised them with her earthy sense of humor, and she was quicker than most of them, so her wordplay had them roaring. She'd always loved to flummox a pride of males, overturn their ideas about what a woman might say or do.

She wasn't the only woman in the group. A couple of old ladies were in the thick of things as well. But most of the women were in what Desi had come to think of as the "suck and serve brigade." They made sure the glasses were full, and they went off with whatever Son grabbed hold of them for a quick suck or fuck. Not a glamorous life.

Early on, though, Desi had noticed one of them. She was really lovely, with honeyed blonde hair, long and straight, bright green eyes, and sprays of freckles over her pert nose and pale shoulders. She'd found herself seeking out the woman, just to look.

"You want her, baby?" She heard Tig's rough whisper against her ear.

She turned and met his eyes. "What?"

"You been watching her all night. We can have her if you want her. Be a good time."

Desi hadn't really been thinking about fucking her—which, sure, was a little strange. She'd simply been admiring her. And there was absolutely no way she and Tig would ever play with a sweetbutt. Never. She turned off the remote, and saw the disappointment cross Tig's face as he felt the vibration stop.

"No, love. Just looking."

"You sure? I can go get her, bring her back to the room."

"She's a sweetbutt. I won't play with a sweetbutt."

His brow furrowed. "Why not? They're a sure thing."

"That's why. The dynamic is wrong. They have to do what you want, right?"

"Well, they don't _have_ to."

"Tig."

He grinned. "Yeah, okay. But if she's gonna be tied up anyway . . ."

He didn't get it. So, here in the middle of this wild Irish party, Desi tried to explain. She leaned close and spoke in his ear. "When it's done right, a submissive has none of the control and all of the power. That's what the safe word is. Even though she is totally constrained, maybe even blindfolded and gagged, nothing happens that she doesn't want, and with one word—or gesture, if she's gagged—from her, everything stops. But a sweetbutt has no power. She'd be afraid of the consequences of using her word. She'd be afraid of saying no at all. So I'll never fuck a sweetbutt. Or a whore. They're in it for the wrong reasons."

He said nothing, but she could see him thinking, and he looked disconcerted. Desi imagined him reflecting on the ways he'd played with women all these years and maybe seeing that differently now. When he met her eyes, he said, simply, "Jesus."

She kissed him and handed him the remote.

-oOo-

Tig was startlingly good with the remote. He got her revved quickly and kept her there—not so much that she couldn't pretend everything was normal, as she'd been all evening, but much more intense than she'd be doing playing with herself. She hadn't been able to discern any kind of pattern to when he'd use it, so she never had any idea when it was coming or when it would end.

He'd had an especially good time while they were playing pool. She'd been smug, thinking she could show him how much control she had over her body no matter what he was doing to her, but she'd been wrong, and she played like she'd never held a cue in her life.

By the time he sat back down and pulled her onto his lap, she was dripping wet and could feel that she'd soaked her jeans. He hooked her arm around his neck, settled his around her hips, and turn it abruptly on full, letting it go until she came, sitting in the middle of cluster of SAMBEL patches. She managed it with little more than a full tensing of her body, but she felt dizzy. When he turned it off, he laughed and pulled her against his chest. He pressed his lips to the side of her neck, then whispered in her ear. "Oh, baby. That vein is going gangbusters. And you got my leg wet. Want to take me back to the room and fuck me?"

Yes, she did. She stood and took his hand.

They weren't even fully undressed, though, when Tig's prepay rang. That thing had been very quiet, comparatively speaking, the whole trip. He groaned now and pulled it out of jeans, which Desi had just been trying to get off him. "Yeah!" She smiled at the sound of his frustration.

He was quiet, listening. Then, "Okay, yeah. . . .Yeah. . . . . Thanks, man." He closed the phone. Still holding it, he took her hand with his free one.

"We gotta go, Des. They found Raven."


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: **I have finished writing this story and can tell you that the last chapter will be Chapter 32. I'll post daily until it's complete—so that would be Monday, then.

Thanks, as always, to Simone Santos and MuckyShroom.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 29:**  
"Criminal," Fiona Apple

They headed back to Paris immediately to collect their things and make arrangements to fly back to the States. They'd had less time than they'd wanted in Europe, but going back to face Raven clearly had Desi excited. She was impatient that they had to wait until the next day to head home. She was barely mollified by the news that even Raven wasn't in California yet. SAMWIN, the charter in Winnipeg, Manitoba, with the help of a couple of Nomads, had found him in Canada. They were bringing him back hidden in the load of a semi SAMWIN was guarding, and it would be a few days before he was in Charming. And Jax still had some things to work out with Romeo regarding what would go down with Raven and how.

Things were likely to move fast once they touched down in Sacramento, though, and they'd be in public—in airports and on planes—for most of the time between then and now. Tig knew that they needed to have a difficult conversation, and they needed to have it before the travel started. So, on their last night in Europe, when they had everything arranged and were packed, and were back at the apartment from a late supper in a nearby café, Tig sat Desi down on the sofa.

"We need to talk about how this will all go down with Raven."

She furrowed her brow, curious, but he could tell she wasn't suspicious yet. "I thought you said we couldn't know that until Jax talked to the Galindo guy—Romeo, right?"

"Yeah. That's right. But Desi—and just listen, okay? You're not gonna kill him. He'll die, I swear it. But it won't be you."

"What the fuck are you talking about? Of course it'll be me. That's the _point_ of all this. I told you what I need." She was still calm; Tig assumed that he'd thrown her a curve and she was still processing.

She could only see the situation from the angle of her obsession with Raven, but things had gotten much more complicated than that, and Tig needed to make her understand that. "You need him to pay, and he will. He'll die, and I'll make sure he goes hard. But there's no way you can be there. This is a negotiation with a drug cartel. Sons don't put women in the middle of that kind of shit. And the Galindos won't want you there, either. The whole thing could go to hell."

"I need to kill him. That's what I need. So, after everything, you're taking this from me? No. You're not. I won't let you. He's mine." Now agitation was creeping in.

She was resolute and not hearing his argument at all. So he tried another approach. "Desi, no. You think you need to kill him, but believe me, you don't need that weight. Killing a man—it changes you. I know. Listen, baby. Please. Let me do this for you. I got your back. I will make sure he suffers."

"You're basing your argument on a faulty assumption. You're making the assumption that I've never killed anyone. I already carry that weight. Trust me, I bear up under it just fine."

Tig was dumbstruck for several seconds, playing over what she'd said, trying to understand whether he might have misinterpreted it. He didn't think he had. "You want to tell me what you mean, Des?"

"Was that not clear? I mean I've killed a man. And that's how I know I need to be the one who kills Raven."

He shifted on the sofa and pulled her around as well, so that they were face to face. "Yeah, baby—you're gonna need to give me more than that."

She nodded and started the story without hesitation. "It was a long time ago—more than 25 years. I had some trouble when I aged out of the system. It's not like they set you up and get you started. You age out, and they put you out. Go into the system as garbage, come out the same way. I didn't have anybody or anything, and I didn't have the first fucking clue how to get them. I told you I'd been on the streets a few times when I ran away, and I went back to the streets then. But, before, when I was still a minor, I knew I could go back in if things got unbearable. Now it was just the streets."

With a frustrated sigh, she waved her hand as if she was impatient with the direction her story was going. "Anyway, long story short. Fell in with some people, pretty rough scene, but they'd have me. I stayed in that crowd for a few years, not able to figure a way to something better. One of them was a very bad guy, and I tried to keep my distance. I was usually pretty good at that, but one day he got close and tried to hurt me. So I killed him. Put a rusty piece of rebar through his eye."

She said it dispassionately. She told the whole story in that way, as if she were narrating a documentary. And she held his gaze throughout.

She went on. "Killing him kicked my cogs into gear. I got out of that scene right then, and within a few weeks I had a job working at a punk club and a place of my own. It was a shitty place, but it was a roof I was putting over my own damn head. And that's how I know I need to kill Raven."

Tig was besieged by warring emotions and images. He didn't know how to respond. He asked the first question that came through fully formed. "Jesus Christ, Desi. What did he do to you?"

She shook her head slowly. "Doesn't matter. I didn't let him."

"What happened with all that?

She shrugged. "Don't know. I just left him where he lay. I doubt anyone cared much. It was an abandoned construction site where people went to score and party. Pretty sketchy."

Again Tig was dazzled and intimidated by his old lady, this woman with whom he was flying first class back to the States tomorrow, who'd footed the bill for several weeks in Europe, who lived in a swanky hotel. She'd started life in a dumpster, was cast away onto the streets, and had killed a man with a rusty piece of rebar in an abandoned construction site.

He couldn't tell her no. He knew there was no way SAMCRO would let her kill Raven. He knew there was no way the scene, whatever it was, would go down the way it needed to if she was anywhere around. There was no place for a woman in that part of his world. But right now, sitting on a sofa in the Paris apartment they'd enjoyed so much, learning more about the rubble from which she'd built herself into such a remarkable woman, he couldn't deny her what she needed.

"Okay, Des. Okay. We'll figure it out.

-oOo-

They took a cab to T-M, where they'd left Tig's bike, and Desi's rented 'Vette, for safekeeping while they were away. The lot was full. SAMCRO was locking down, and Jax had called Church for when Tig got there, so everyone was waiting. As the cabbie unloaded their bags, Tig called Freddy over and had him take them into the clubhouse. Then he took Desi's hand and they went inside. He was going to have to tell her she wouldn't be coming along when they went out to deal with Raven. His plan was to do so at the last minute, as they were leaving.

The clubhouse was packed, as it always was during a lockdown. Phil, Joey, and V-Lin were at the bar, assembling weapons. Pepboy was bringing what they'd built to a stack on the pool table. Quinn, the Nomad President, was with Jax, Chibs, and Bobby, sitting over in the corner, in a deep confab. Everybody was busy in some way. As Frank came up and took Desi's arm, leading her off, Tig saw Hap and Juice coming in from the office. Tig felt several steps behind. He'd expected the lockdown, but this felt like preparation for war, and he thought Jax had gotten the Galindo okay for this.

Once everyone was aware that Tig was back, Jax called the Sons into the Chapel and laid out the potentially explosive situation. They all had the context and understood how it began with Tig's old lady and wound around to a big cartel clusterfuck. Jax simply explained where they were headed now.

"We have Raven, or Ramon, at Hap's cabin. Davey J., Monstro, and Gene, from SAMWIN, and Billy, one of Quinn's Nomads, have him under wraps up there until I give the sign. Through Romeo, we have Miguel's clearance to end the fucker. Sounds like Galindo has wanted him dead anyway, since he burned down half a city block in the California state capitol. And he's pissed that JoJo is fucking up his own kid and bragging about it. It's all too sloppy. So Romeo worked a deal where we're getting something more out of it. We get the kid, too."

Jax leaned forward. "Way it's supposed to go down is this: We meet Romeo in a warehouse outside Galt. SAMWIN brings Raven there. After we get some time with Raven, Luis will bring JoJo and the kid to meet us. Galindo wants him to see Raven die, verify the kill. He gets his cousin's body, we get the kid. Everybody goes home. Smooth as glass."

No one had interrupted Jax's monologue. Now he looked around the room, making eye contact with every Son. "Won't go down like that. Romeo told me today that JoJo is pitching a fit. We should expect him to double-cross. That's why the lockdown and loadup. We gotta be ready for big shit to go down." He sat back. "Questions?"

There were none. The Sons stood and headed out to gear up.

-oOo-

Desi came up to Tig right away, as he was fastening a Kevlar vest over his chest. "What's going on?"

He couldn't put it off any longer. He wrapped his hands around her upper arms and looked her in the eye. "It's complicated, Des. It's about more than Raven. But we got this. _I_ got this. Raven dies today, I promise. But you have to stay here."

She shoved him hard, and he took a step back. "Are you joking? I'll do no such thing! This is my kill!"

He considered explaining how the situation had gotten complicated, but he didn't have time, and he didn't think it would matter. In fact, if she thought there were a chance they wouldn't kill Raven, she might be even more insistent. No, he decided to drive home a different point. "Fuck, Desi. Do you understand what we're dealing with? This is a fuckin' _drug cartel_. We worked out a way to make him pay for what he did to you, but you gotta play the goddamn game. Their rules. You are staying the fuck here. _Period_!"

"Do you think you just gave me an order? Is that what you think happened? Fuck you!"

It was time to go, and they were drawing attention. He had to get control of her, and he had to do it now. He grabbed her arm again and pulled her down the hall, fighting her resistance the whole time. As soon as he turned the corner, he put her against the wall.

"Fuck!" she snarled, trying to push herself clear.

"You listen to me, Des. Here, in this place, you listen to me. My house, my rules. I don't give a fuck—if I tell you to do something, you fucking do it. That's how shit works here. So when I tell you that you're staying put, you are staying put. I'm _protecting_ you."

She had gone still, but he could see that her fury was unabated. "You're delusional if you think that means shit to me." Her voice was steady and low, almost a whisper.

"If _I_ mean anything to you, then you'll listen. Stay here. Stay out of trouble. Let us handle this." She didn't respond, but she wasn't fighting any longer. He let go of her, and she stood there. He needed to go, so he decided to take it as a win. Pressing a quick but sincere kiss to her lips, he headed out with the Sons.

On their way to the bikes, Jax came up alongside him. "We got a problem with your old lady, Tig?"

Tig shook his head. "Nah, boss. She just needed to get her head around things." Jax gave him a look, then nodded and clapped on him the back.

-oOo-

They were about five miles north of Charming on 99 when the black convertible 'Vette came up behind them. She'd followed them. Fuck, fuck, fucking Christ.

She'd fucking _followed_ them. When Jax saw the car and understood what Desi had done he had the Sons force her to the shoulder. She pulled to a stop and got out. Tig came up as close to the car as he could and dismounted. He was furious—so angry that he was worried her would hit her—but then Jax was stalking toward her, his gun out and pointed right in Desi's face.

Tig tore forward and put himself between Jax and Desi. He didn't draw, though. Not on his President, not yet. He and Jax had had their issues over the years, but he was his President. "Jax, man, what're you doin'?" He spared a quick glance around to see that all the Sons were pulling their pieces, though no one else had aimed. Dammit, Desi was gonna start a civil fucking war on the wide shoulder of Highway 99.

Jax didn't drop his piece; now it was aimed at Tig's Kevlar-armored chest. He spoke to Desi. "You are gonna get us all killed, darlin'. Get back in your car and turn the fuck around."

Before Tig realized what she was doing, she ducked around him and stepped between him and Jax. Tig grabbed her shoulder, shouting her name, but she shook him off and focused on Jax. "You'll have to shoot me. Only way I'm not going with you is if you kill me right here on the side of the road. This kill is mine."

"No, it's not." Jax cocked his Glock. Tig was stunned and speechless. He was standing here, about to watch his President kill his old lady. He drew his piece now, and cocked it, but he didn't aim. The thought occurred to him that he could wing her, disable her, and save her that way, but he couldn't aim at her. His arms just refused.

The air was electric with tension. Desi and Jax stared at each other. Without relaxing his aim, Jax spoke to her. "I understand revenge, darlin'. We all do. But someone once told me that revenge works best when you step away from the need to feel it. Bad guy, but good advice. And I'm givin' it to you now. This is where you step away."

Tig knew who'd said that. "That was Pope." Jax glanced at him and nodded. Tig looked at Desi; he could see that she'd made all the connections, but it didn't have the impact it should have.

She remained defiant. "You're telling me you let other people take your revenge? You don't go for your own kills? That's bullshit."

Jax sighed. "I can't let you fuck this up, darlin'. You're not coming with us."

Desi took a step forward; the muzzle was inches from her face. "Do it. It's only thing that will stop me." Jax steadied his grip, and Tig realized that Jax was prepared to shoot her. In the face.

Tig aimed at Jax and saw the President's eyes twitch toward him and register that he'd done so. He also felt all the Sons' guns come up. On the side of the highway. There was so much wrong in this moment it defied comprehension. "Jax, man. Please. Not this way. Gotta be something else."

Then Chibs chimed in. "Christ. Jax, I say we let 'er come. Her own risk. Ye can't shoot 'er on the road, brutha. We gotta get movin' or we're in a world o' shite."

After a few more charged seconds, Jax pulled his piece back and decocked it. "Jesus Christ. Can just one of us find a woman who will do _what the fuck she's told_?" He turned to Tig. "She fucks this up, it's on you. Do you hear what I'm sayin'?"

Tig heard that he would pay the consequences, and that one of those consequences would be killing Desi himself, assuming she or he lived through what was coming. He nodded woodenly. In this moment, he was willing.

Jax holstered his piece. "She rides in the van." He leaned right down into Desi's face. "And you'll stay in the goddamn van." He stalked off back to his bike. Tig pulled his kutte off to remove his vest and give it to Desi. He saw Desi start to protest, but he didn't give a fuck. At the sound of the Velcro tabs pulling loose, though, Jax turned back. "You fuckin' keep that vest, Tig. She wants the risk, she can take the risk."

Tig's first thought was _fuck that_, but he looked at Jax, and he looked at Desi. He was vibrating with anger, and it was directed right at Desi. She was so goddamn obsessed with Raven that she either didn't realize or didn't care how many people she was putting at risk—not least herself. He resealed the tabs over his chest and pulled his kutte back on. Then he grabbed her arm and dragged her to the van.

He opened the door and pushed her toward the seat. "You got no idea what you've done, doll. He'll have me kill you if this goes south. And Desi, I'll fucking do it." She glared at him but got in without a word.

They left the 'Vette where it sat.

-oOo-

They pulled up in the overgrown lot at the warehouse. A plain white cargo van and two Harleys were parked there already—SAMWIN, with Raven. No Galindos on the scene yet—which was as planned; the Sons got some time with Raven first. It was a big concession from Galindo, a gesture of goodwill. He had sanctioned retaliation for what Raven had done to a Son's old lady.

As Tig dismounted, Jax and Hap came up to him. Jax said simply, "You roll with what's next, got it?" Tig wouldn't have thought he could feel more anxiety, but he felt a spike nonetheless. Still, he nodded. Desi had made this bed.

Despite Jax's warning to stay in the van, Desi was standing outside it. Of course. Tig noted that Hap went around the van opposite the way that Jax did. And then Tig understood. Lightheaded from adrenaline, anger, and worry, he followed Jax.

Desi stood there, rebellious, amping up for the fight she thought she was in for. In that moment, Tig loved her and loathed her in equal measure. She was reckless and out of control, and she could well destroy the Sons with her very presence—and she knew it and didn't care. But she was strong and fierce and beautiful.

As he and Jax walked up to her, he saw Jax smile. "You're one tough chick, darlin', no question. But you're wrong, Desi. This isn't your kill. You don't belong here. Can't let you fuck this up."

Desi opened her mouth to retort, but just then Hap's arm went around her throat, and all that came out of her was a surprised squeak. As Hap steadily closed off her airway, seemingly impervious to her nails raking long, bloody scratches into his forearm, Desi met Tig's eyes. He didn't look away. "I'm sorry, baby. I love you."

When Hap let her go, Tig caught her and cradled her in his arms.


	30. Chapter 30

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 30:  
**"Slither," Velvet Revolver

_Everything hurt. Her arms, her back, her legs. Her throat. Her head—God, her head hurt_._ Like her brain was stuck in a vise._

Desi tried to rub at her forehead. She couldn't move her hands right. She tried to sit up. She couldn't do that. Consciousness finally coming on enough that she could put these problems together into some kind of awareness, she opened her eyes, understanding that she was bound at the wrists and ankles. She looked around. She was in the back of a van—probably the club van. Yes.

There was Freddy, watching her, looking guilty. "You okay, Desi?"

She ignored him. Her head really hurt like crazy, but she forced herself to keep thinking, remembering. She was with the Sons. This was where they were going to kill Raven. Raven was here. He was here. But they'd knocked her out somehow—right, she remembered someone's arm around her. Heavily inked. Happy. She remembered Tig, too—watching as Happy strangled her. And now she was bound in the back of their van, this kid guarding her.

They'd tied her up?! How long had she been out? Was it too late? Was Raven dead already? _FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK_! An overwhelming burst of fury and panic went through her, and the pain in her head exploded. It was so intense it almost put her back under. In the haze of pain and confusion that ensued, she forced her head to think one thing at a time. Okay. First things first. Raven's condition didn't matter as long as she was tied up. She focused and examined the knots in the bindings. They were good and tightened when she moved. But they were hitch knots. If she could turn her hand the right way, she thought she could release them. She knew she could get her legs free; they'd bound her hands in front. Not that smart, considering her recreational activities. She didn't know who'd bound her, but it wasn't someone who expected her to know about knots.

Okay, then, the bindings she could deal with. Now, about Freddy. She'd need to disable him somehow, at least long enough to get loose and out of the van. Wouldn't suck to get his gun, either. He was a good kid. Not that big. She wasn't anywhere near as strong as she had once been, but she wasn't weak. She didn't want to hurt him, just slow him down.

She tested the bindings around her wrist and managed to turn her hands carefully, just enough that she could catch the free end of the knot in her fingers without tightening the bond. When she was sure she could make quick work of both knots, she curled her legs up tight and moaned.

Freddy, sitting sideways in the driver's seat, looking anxious, stood and hunched over to her. "Desi? Ma'am? You okay?"

He was going to get an extra kick for the "ma'am." She groaned again. "Fuck. My head. It's so bad. I need to sit up."

He set his gun down on the floor of the van—score!—and leaned in to help her up. She kicked him, hard, in the balls with her bound feet. He landed on his knees, and she kicked him in the face, bloodying his nose. He wasn't out, but he was sure as fuck distracted. She pulled the knot around her wrist free and then did the same to her ankles. Then she grabbed Freddy's gun and bolted out the driver's side door.

She closed the door, hitting the automatic door lock as she did; every millisecond counted, and she needed one to get her bearings. She hadn't been lying about her head, either. The pain was tough to ignore.

The lot was full of vehicles now—bikes, the Sons' black van she'd just gotten out of and a white cargo van she'd seen when she got here, four black Hummers. Whatever was going down was going down. She didn't see anyone on guard duty. That seemed weird, but her knowledge of operations like these was limited mainly to movies. She'd run with rough crowds, but what was going on here was a whole new level.

There was an open door on the side of the warehouse. She scooted around the front of the van and gauged the distance she'd be in the open to get to that door. It was a fair amount of distance. But then the van rocked a little—Freddy was getting up. She had to move.

Fuck it. She just ran.

As she got to the door, she ran headlong into a broad Latino man carrying a large automatic rifle who'd just come out of the door she'd been running to. She literally bounced off him, but she was amped for trouble that he'd not been, and she managed to get Freddy's gun aimed at him before he'd made sense of the fact that a woman had just run into him and was now pointing a Beretta at his head. He opened his arms wide in a gesture of surrender.

But now she didn't know what to do. She couldn't shoot him; the gun wasn't silenced—she knew enough about guns to know that—and she couldn't alert anybody to trouble out here. He was muscle-bound and over six feet tall, and she was at least four inches shorter, so she didn't think she could make him unconscious.

She was stuck.

She must have shown some kind of weakness or indecision, because he made a move so quick she didn't see it coming and backhanded her hard, knocking the gun out of her hands and sending her to the ground, her already throbbing head now screaming. Then he had her by the hair, dragging her back to her feet. With his other hand, he wrenched her left arm behind her back and drove her forward, into the warehouse.

She had no idea what she'd expected was going on in here, but whatever it was, she'd been wrong. She saw Tig first. His kutte was off. He was still wearing the vest, and his hands were gloved, but she could see from the shimmering wetness that he was covered in blood. She hoped it wasn't his. She didn't think it was. He was standing with an equally bloody Happy, on either side of a beaten, bloody, and burned Raven, who was bound to a set of crossed beams as if crucified. His face was swollen almost beyond recognition. His hands and feet looked like chunks of charcoal. His bare chest was sliced open. And yet, he was conscious; when he saw her, he grinned through his broken mouth.

Jesus. She would never have thought to inflict this kind of pain and suffering on him. She couldn't believe he was still alive. She almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Tig was staring at her, his face ashen. A Latino man was standing next to him, a rifle against his temple. Another man had Happy likewise. To her left the rest of the Sons were arrayed, disarmed, two men holding them at bay with large automatic rifles. Four Sons were down. She tried to remember who they were. The big one—Phil. She couldn't remember the others' names. One was Asian, another a good looking blond kid. Peppy or Petey or something. One she didn't think she'd seen before. To her right, another man was down, an older Latino with long hair in a ponytail. He was a scary-looking guy, but he was down, bleeding heavily.

A group of Latino men stood to Desi's right, most looking cocky and victorious. One stood in the center. Desi thought he was about 30 years old. Dressed like a "gangsta"—baggy jeans, Louis Vuitton hoodie, close-cropped hair, aviator shades. Any other situation, Desi would have rolled her eyes. But he seemed to be the man in charge. A somewhat older man, attractive, stood back, his arms clasped behind him. There were five other men, all Latino. One of them held a young boy, no more than four or so, in his arms. The boy seemed indifferent to the scene, as if he were already inured to such violence.

There was a kid here? What the fuck was going on?

She'd surveyed the scene in the couple of seconds it took for the room to orient itself to her presence. The Sons all looked at her, all of them furious. Desi spared a half second to huff to herself that she couldn't possibly be making this situation worse. The other men were shocked.

Gangsta-boy asked the man holding Desi, "Who the fuck is that?" He spoke Spanish, but Desi did, too. No point in announcing that fact, of course. It might be useful.

"Found her outside. Think she was meaning to get in here." Desi glanced at Tig, but he didn't have any idea what these guys were saying. She wondered if any of the Sons spoke Spanish. If not, that was stupid. Considering what they did, somebody should have some passable Spanish.

With that thought, Desi realized that her brain was working as it had before. She was completely calm, taking in the situation, looking for her angle, her edge. Holy shit. Okay, where was the angle? The guy holding her had swung his big rifle to his back to grab her by the hair and arm. He'd tucked Freddy's gun in the front of his waistband; she could feel it against her back—and against the hand the guy had wrenched behind her. She could fuck this guy up if she could get her hand on that and just pull the trigger. No need to be quiet now.

But what would that do? Could the Sons retrieve their guns in the second or two of disruption her fighting back might cause? Yes—if they were on the ball. Their guns had just been kicked a few feet away. Tig and Happy were in the most danger, each one with a gun at his head. Was there a way she could let Tig know to be ready?

She counted. Eight Sons standing and able-bodied: Tig, Happy, Juice, Jax, Chibs, and three she didn't recognize, one of them huge—him she remembered seeing at the clubhouse earlier. Four Sons down, two of them unconscious. Twelve Latino men on their feet. Everyone was armed but Desi and the Sons.

These odds sucked.

Now Gangsta-boy walked up to her. His hoodie was unzipped; he had a shoulder holster. She wasn't sure that would be useful right now, but it was information maybe for later. He grabbed her chin in his hand and yanked her head up and to the side, presenting her left side, with its tattoo, to his gaze. "This is the freak cunt Ramon torched," he said in Spanish.

He pushed her head away. "What you doin' here, _puta_?" To her, he spoke in English, except for the common insult.

"Just taking in the show." He punched her in the stomach. She'd expected a slap, and the punch almost flattened her. But she'd gotten a lot of experience controlling and finding her breath over the past five months, and she recovered fairly quickly, standing straight again, meeting his eyes.

He laughed. "Ooh, tough bitch, eh? You that one's old lady, ain't you?" He gestured at Tig, and the man holding him dragged him forward. Tig looked furious and terrified. He was bleeding badly from a gash on his forehead.

"Desi." He took a punch in the mouth for speaking. He'd said volumes in those two syllables—that he loved her, he feared for her, he was sorry, he was angry, he was helpless. She also heard goodbye. No fucking way. He wasn't helpless. She was a vector for change in the situation—no one had expected her. And—sweet Jesus, she hoped—she was trailing Freddy behind her. Only she and the Sons could be expecting him. She'd taken his gun, but she had a feeling there were more weapons out there somewhere.

She couldn't control what Freddy did or didn't do, or how he was armed, but when they brought Tig to her they gave her an opportunity to maybe communicate something to him—if only to be ready to take the opportunity she presented.

Gangsta-boy had mischief on his mind, though. The guy who'd found her still had her by the arm and hair. Now he released her hair as Gangsta-boy grabbed it and stepped up against her. She felt the guy still holding her arm loosen his grip a little as Gangsta-boy stepped in and said, "All this blood makes me horny." He thrust his hips hard against her, then started grinding away. Tig growled ferociously, but was helpless. Desi thought of Dawn, and her heart ached for him.

She decided to try something. She made eye contact with Tig and then looked at the gun at his head. She hoped he understood what she wanted him to do. She hoped it would fucking work. She was not practiced with guns, and could only hope that what she was about to do with Freddy's gun would even work. If not, she was in for a world of hurt.

Gangsta-boy was still grinding away on her, yanking her hips against him. What a douchebag. When she could catch his eye, she smiled slyly. "That tiny thing I feel—that's not—no, really?" She laughed. He stopped and hauled off to take a big swing at her face. He paused, with his arm cocked, trying, Desi assumed, to be menacing. It gave her her chance. Anticipating the blow, the guy holding her shifted enough. She got her hands around the gun in his waistband and pulled the trigger. It fired. Thank God.

He fell screaming immediately, and she was free, the gun still in her hand. She hauled it around and shot Gangsta-boy in the stomach. She hadn't aimed, she'd just yanked and fired. He didn't go down. Instead he lunged for her. But Tig had the gun of the guy who'd held him, and suddenly Gangsta-boy was missing most of his throat. Then Tig's arms were around her, and he was dragging her back behind some deteriorating wooden crates. "Stay the fuck down!" he growled and then ran out firing the rifle he'd taken.

She did as she was told. She didn't have a view of what was going on, and all she could hear was gunfire and sounds of struggle. Then, after what might have been seconds or hours, Happy dove back with her. He had the boy in his arms. Setting him down next to her, Happy shouted, "Watch him!" and was gone. She gathered him onto her lap and leaned against the crates, feeling overly sheltered and overly vulnerable all at once. She still had Freddy's gun, at least. The boy just looked at her. Shit, what had this kid seen already in his little life?

Finally, it was quiet. Desi was afraid to look, but she set the boy aside and stood. As she did, she came face to face with Tig, who yanked her hard into an embrace. "Fuck, Desi." He kissed her. "I told you to stay down." He hugged her again, then pulled her forward. "Come on."

Happy came up and took the boy. He handed him off to Juice, who took him outside.

Tig led Desi back out to the scene of the fray. There were bodies everywhere. All of the Latino men were down—she assumed they were Galindos. She looked around—it didn't look like any more Sons were hurt. The others were helping their fallen brothers, and the ponytailed man, who was apparently a friend, out to the vans. Freddy—he had made it—and one of the Sons she didn't recognize were piling up the Galindo bodies. Twelve men dead. Five men badly injured. Raven still bound to beams. And a preschooler here for it all.

This was Tig's world?

Desi was stunned. She felt sick. She'd forgotten about the pain in her head, but now it came back with a vengeance, weakening her knees. She faltered, and Tig tightened his grip around her. "You okay, baby?" She shook her head. It hurt to do so.

He turned her to face him, his eyes sharp with worry. "You hurt?"

She shook her head again. She wasn't, not the way he meant.

Jax came up to them. He took her by the arm and dragged her forward, out of Tig's arms. Tig let him do so, though she could feel resistance in his arms as they dropped, and followed. They stopped in front of Raven.

He was still alive, and still partially conscious. He was bleeding from his leg now, too—it looked like he caught a bullet in melee. Shit, up close like this, Desi got a very clear sense of what Tig and Happy had done to him. She could smell his burned flesh. She could smell the exposed meat of his chest—they'd _flayed_ him. Jax put his gun in her hands; she had no idea what had happened to Freddy's. "You wanted the kill so fucking bad. Now take it."

At first, she looked at the gun in her hand as if she didn't know what it was. Finally, she raised it and pointed it in Raven's direction. Tig stepped behind her and brought his arms forward, taking her hands and changing her grip on the gun. "Here, Des. Both hands. Don't aim, just point and squeeze." He kissed her head and stayed where he was, dropping his hands to her hips.

She just stood there. She couldn't do it. When she'd killed Damien, he'd been on her, at her, and she'd been fighting for herself. She'd grabbed the rebar and had made herself free. This—this was different. She hadn't thought it would be. Raven had almost destroyed her. He'd almost killed her. He'd taken everything from her. It shouldn't be different. This was where she would reclaim herself.

Why wasn't that true? She'd taken a huge risk to be here for this moment—to take this action. But she couldn't do it. She lowered the gun.

Tig twitched. "Desi? After all this, baby, take the fucking shot." She shook her head and lowered the gun.

And then Raven, barely conscious, suffering horribly—he had to be—laughed. Through his broken mouth he made two words clear: "Fuckin' skank." And then he laughed harder.

Desi raised the gun and emptied the clip. When it was empty, she dry fired until Tig brought his arms up around her and took the gun from her. Then she turned and put her forehead against his bloody, armored chest.


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: **Sexual violence warning. Things go very wrong here. It's not where I wanted them to go. It really, really isn't.

I'm posting the whole story today and completing it ahead of my planned time. I'm adding an A/N to the end of the next (last) chapter to address why, if that's something you're interested in.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 31:  
**"Tear You Apart," She Wants Revenge

The Sons brought their injured brothers—Phil, V-Lin, Pepboy, Davey J., and Romeo—back to the clubhouse. They'd called ahead, and Tara, Bobby, Joey, Gemma, Frank, and the Crow Eaters had prepped for medical work.

All the Sons had been wearing vests, but for V-Lin and Davey J., it hadn't mattered. V-Lin had taken two slugs in the thigh; one had caught his femoral artery, and he'd bled out in the van. Davey J. had been shot in the head. He hung on, conscious and even able to talk until they got him back to the clubhouse, but Tara had triaged him and couldn't do anything for him. He was dwindling quickly by then. He had outstanding warrants and wouldn't go to the hospital, so she made him as comfortable as she could. The Sons said their goodbyes, and Davey J. died on the pool table surrounded by brothers, but far away from his home charter.

Phil had taken one in the face and one in the arm. The shot to his face had put a gouge in his cheek; the other slug had passed right through his arm. He'd be fine. Tara had Chibs clean and patch him up. Pepboy had take five slugs to his chest. He'd been wearing armor, so he had three broken ribs and some really spectacular bruising. Tara put him in the queue for Chibs' attention. The rest of the Sons tended to their own cuts and bruises as well as they could; anything needing stitches could wait.

Romeo needed most of Tara's attention. He hadn't been wearing a vest and had taken two shots to the gut. He wouldn't go to the hospital, either, but Jax had called the Galindo hotline, and the cartel was coming to pick him up and take him for medical care. Tara's job—and it was crucial—was to keep him alive and viable until they arrived. She had both Gemma and Frank up to their elbows in his abdominal cavity trying to help her stop his bleeding.

Tig took one look at that and found something else to do—not because the gore made him squeamish, but because the thought of Romeo dying, and what that would mean for the Sons, did.

But Tara got him stable enough, apparently, and when the Galindos came to collect their man, Tig watched Jax and Romeo shake hands sincerely. When they were gone, Jax put Gemma and the women on preparing funerals. Frank had babysitting duty with Teddy, the poor, obviously damaged kid who'd witnessed all that shit. Hap had called Toad, who was in Los Angeles and would be a few hours before he could collect his nephew.

Desi had just been sitting off in a corner quietly. Tig grabbed her and pulled her down the hallway, back to the apartment. Their bags were on the bed. Fuck, he'd forgotten that the last time he'd been in a bed he'd been in Paris. More than two days ago. He pushed her down to sit on the bed next to their luggage.

He grabbed her chin and took a good look at her face. Her lip was split, and her cheek was swollen, but otherwise she looked okay. He brushed his fingers over the tattoo on her temple. They hadn't spoken since the warehouse, not more than a couple of words. She'd been quiet, almost shell-shocked, since she killed Raven. She was silent now, looking up at him. She looked scared and exhausted. God, he'd been so fucking pissed at her. He was still fucking pissed. And so scared. He wanted to beat the shit out of her. He wanted to fold her in his arms and keep her safe.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Desi. The shit you did today. You could have brought us all down, gotten everybody killed. For all I know, I'm going to go into Church right now and get an order to kill you. You understand that?"

Still holding his eyes, she nodded. "I'm . . . sorry. Her voice was low, and it cracked over the last word.

He squatted down in front of her. "I love you, baby. I get that you want to run your own show. But when the club is involved, you _have_ to do what I say. No question. No matter what happens in Church tonight, we end right here and now unless you agree to that and stick to it. You _cannot_ put your nose in club shit. No matter what. What we do gets big and bloody. You saw that today. Today you got lucky, and you fucking up the plan actually helped us. But don't think that's gonna give you a pass. We might still vote to kill you." He didn't think they would—she was a woman, she was his old lady, and she had saved their asses—but he had to scare her. Because next time would be a different story. And she was only an old lady, not a patch. No need for a unanimous vote.

"Desi—do you understand me?" She nodded. "No, Des. Say it. Tell me you understand."

"I understand." He was worried; it was like she was barely in the room with him. Shock, maybe. Fatigue.

Just then, somebody hammered on the door. "Tig! Table!" It was Hap.

Tig turned back to Desi. "Okay. I want you to stay here—in this room—until I get back. I don't know what's going to go down at the table, so you stay put. Maybe take a shower, wash this day off. But do not leave this room. Got it?" She nodded. He stood, kissed her head, and left.

-oOo-

Jax opened with a rant about Desi. Several Sons had failed at controlling her. She'd gotten by Bobby and Joey at the clubhouse, and she'd totally handed Freddy his ass. Poor kid was probably looking at another year before his patch vote now, though they voted not to take his kutte.

Jax—the whole club—was pissed the fuck off at Tig's old lady. But if it hadn't been for her ignoring everything they'd told her—and then thinking clearly and quickly—they'd all be dead. They owed her, and they knew it.

The real double-cross hadn't even been JoJo. He'd been bitching and popping off, but he hadn't had anywhere near the pull to orchestrate the flip of nearly a dozen men. No, Luis had been the real traitor, and he'd caught Romeo flatfooted, too. All the traitors were dead, and no one had done any monologuing, so his motives could only be surmised. Didn't matter. They were dead, Romeo was alive. He was a trusted advisor to Miguel Galindo, and he could bring the account to him. He had already, in fact.

They'd killed Raven, saved the kid, and rooted out a mutiny in the cartel, hopefully earning additional goodwill from Galindo. Not a bad day's work. But it had been chaos, and the Sons had lost two brothers, so there was no celebrating.

Jax gaveled the meeting to a close. As the Sons filed out, he called Tig back. Tig turned and walked a few steps back to his seat. Jax walked calmly up to him, then grabbed him by the kutte and dragged him to the wall.

"Just want to make myself crystal. I will _not_ have your pet gash running loose in my clubhouse, _brother_. You get control of her, and you do it now. She pulls anything like that again, and I will have her head. And I'll have you do it—since you have a thing for killing women."

Tig was livid, but he didn't fight back. He stared stonily at his President. Jax shook loose his grip on Tig's kutte and stalked off. After taking a minute to settle his blood, Tig followed.

The medical paraphernalia that had overtaken the barroom when they'd returned had been cleaned up. Pepboy was snoring in a recliner. Kay had Phil settled on a couch for a restorative blow job. Juice was with Frank, and Hap with Viv and Hope. The rest of the Sons were at the bar. Tig went down the hallway to check on Desi.

The room was dark; by the light coming in from the hallway, he could see her lying in the bed, wearing a SAMCRO t-shirt. Their bags were on the floor at the foot of the bed. "Des?" he asked, quietly. She didn't answer. He decided to let her sleep. He was exhausted, too, but he needed some time to set things to rights in his head. The anger still pounding in his veins made being around her hard—he was afraid he'd flip and hurt her. He went out to the bar.

A quick survey of the room told him that Hap had taken his family home, as had Jax. Juice and Frank were still here; Frank was taking care of Teddy. The SAMCRO patches had been coupling up over the past few years—Jax, Juice, Hap, and now Tig all had old ladies. So the 'Eaters were having a bonanza with Quinn, Billy, Monstro and Gene around the bar. The place was thick with chicks. The atmosphere was subdued, with the loss of V-Lin and Davey J., but that didn't mean the men weren't looking to wet their wicks. When Tig sat down at the bar, he had to navigate the bare legs of three women—Amie and Deanna on Monstro, and Ronnie on Quinn. The other Sons were similarly engaged.

The big Nomad nodded at him, his hands around Ronnie's hips. "Hey, brother. Thought you'd be back wrangling that hellcat of yours."

"She's sleeping. I'll leave her be."

"Never thought I'd see you with another old lady, Tig. Looks like you got your hands full with that one, too."

He decided he wasn't in the mood. "Yeah." He tossed his drink back and stood up. As he headed away from the bar and down the hallway, he heard Quinn say to Ronnie, "So, sweetness, why don't you take me to a dark corner and have your way with me."

Tig went back and took a shower in the apartment bathroom. When the water hit his face, he realized that he'd never taken care of the cut on his forehead. The shower made it bleed again, so when he got out, he rummaged through the medicine cabinet and found some butterflies. Then he got into bed with his old lady. He lay behind her and pulled her close. She didn't wake.

He was surprised, really, that she was sleeping, considering everything that had happened and what had been hanging over her head. But then again, maybe it wasn't so surprising after all. They'd been more than two days without good sleep—the snatches they'd gotten on the planes didn't count—and this day had been intense and hellish.

Thinking about the day, and what she'd done, had his rage spiking again, and he rolled to his back and got some distance. He couldn't seem to get over his anger at her, despite the fact that she'd saved them, despite everything that she'd gone through, despite her seeming fragility since she'd killed Raven. When he thought about the risk, what she'd almost done, what she could have done, he had to grip his hands together to keep them from going for her.

This wouldn't work. Not unless he could get some control over her, make her see where the boundary of her autonomy was. The club couldn't—wouldn't—tolerate an old lady who behaved the way Desi did today. She was dangerous. She had to learn when to act like an old lady.

Just then, she stirred and sat up. Without saying anything, she got up and went to the bathroom. Acting on impulse and intuition more than thought, he got up and stood outside the bathroom door. When the door opened and she came out, he grabbed her and put her face-first against the wall. She gasped but didn't move quickly enough to resist.

"Tig—what?"

He leaned against her, his whole body pressed to hers, and growled into her ear. "You almost fucked everything up today, doll. Do you get that? Do you get how many people could have died today—people I love—because you were so damn set on getting your way?"

"I get it. I'm sorry."

He believed her, but it didn't matter. "That's not enough. You didn't step on somebody's fucking toes, Desi. You could have ended SAMCRO. You sure as fuck risked it. Sorry doesn't begin to make up for it."

When she spoke, the regret was palpable in her voice. "I don't know what to do. Tig, I—I know I fucked up. I was wrong about what I needed, and I was selfish. I don't know what to do to make it up."

"You gotta make me trust that you'll listen to me in this clubhouse, do what I say."

She nodded, her face moving on the wall. "I will. I promise."

"Not good enough, doll. You gotta show me." He wrapped his hands around her wrists.

"How?"

"Do what I say now."

She was quiet for several seconds. Then she whispered, "What?"

And now the moment of truth. "Submit, Desi. Show me you understand how it works here. I want to have my way with you."

He could feel her body shaking against his. She didn't answer for a long time. He waited. She had to say yes. If she didn't, everything went to shit. He couldn't let her put his club in the kind of jeopardy she'd put it in today. He couldn't be forced into a situation where he'd have to kill her. Where the Sons were concerned, he had to be on top.

She'd been quiet too long. "Desi."

"I can't." She whispered it.

Rage and hurt exploded in his head. "Fuck!" he roared, then pulled her away from the wall by her shoulders and slammed her back against it. "Fuck! You stupid fucking cunt!" He slammed her into the wall again, felt her sag in his hands, then grabbed her by the neck and arm and threw her onto the bed. She scrambled to get off, but he grabbed her ankles and yanked her back, dropping over her, ignoring her hands as they shoved against his chest, spreading her legs wide, pushing her underwear aside, and ramming himself into her.

She was dry, and it hurt him. That abrading resistance caught in his head and made a small space in his rage, barely large enough for him to understand what he'd just done. He pulled out and jumped off the bed, panting. Desi rolled off the other side of the bed and stood, weaving a little, her hands wrapped tightly around herself. She stood there, saying nothing, looking terrified. It wasn't a look that belonged on her face.

He was still roiling in rage, his fists clenched, fighting the urge to cross the room and have at her again. He was losing that fight. "Get out. You have to get out now. Get the fuck out."

She did. Without saying anything, without even putting on a pair of pants, she left.

When he was alone in the room, he sat down on the bed and put his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees. What the fuck had just happened? What the fuck had he done?

He went out to the barroom a while later, calmer, looking for Desi. All of her stuff was still there, so he figured she was somewhere around, and they needed to talk. As he cleared the hallway, Juice stepped into his path.

"Outta my way, man." Tig tried to push him, but Juice stood pat.

"She's not here. Frank took her away, and you are staying the fuck away from her."

"You can't keep me from my old lady, asshole."

"The woman you just raped? I think I can. I will."

Tig didn't think about it; he just hauled off and swung. Juice ducked it and came in with a jab to Tig's gut, leaving him winded. And then Bobby and Chibs, who'd both been getting sucked off by 'Eaters when Tig came into the room, were between them, pushing them apart.

Gesturing at the pool table, Bobby said, "Damn, boys. Bodies of two of our brothers were laying on that table a couple of hours ago. This is not the time."

Chibs pulled Tig back toward the hallway. "Get some sleep, brutha. Sort it out in the mornin'." Confused, still consumed by fury, and weary beyond words, Tig nodded and headed back to try to sleep it off.

-oOo-

When he woke the next morning, her bags were no longer at the foot of the bed.

He rode to the hotel and was told Desi had checked out. Trying not to lose his head, he rode straight out to Frank and Juice's place. No one was there. He rode back to the clubhouse, his blood throbbing in his temples.

He strode in, located Juice in the office, and demanded, "Where the fuck is she?"

He looked up from his laptop. "She's gone, Tig."

What the fuck did that mean? "Gone where?"

"Don't know. Frank took her to the airport before dawn."

Jesus. "You son of a bitch. You were _in_ on this? Helping her run?"

"You got a problem with that, then bring it to the table or meet me in the ring. She wanted out, and I wasn't about to fucking stop her." He rose from his chair and stood chest to chest with Tig. "I'll tell you this—you come at Frank, and I will fucking gut you. Desi asked her friend for help. End of story."

"Where did she go?" Tig was losing control of his head. It was all panic and fury and desolation.

"I told you, I don't know."

"You can find out."

Juice nodded and shrugged. "Can. Won't."

Almost paralyzed by the emotions churning in his head and through his gut, Tig roared into his brother's face and tore back to the lot for his bike. The airport. He had to get to the airport.

He was mounted, his helmet on, about to kick the engine up, when he just stopped. She'd run. She'd run far. She'd been running from him as long as he'd known her. And now she was right to do it.

She wasn't his old lady. She wasn't his. She never had been.

Tig took his helmet off and went back into the clubhouse to drink himself unconscious.


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: **This chapter completes the story. Sorry I couldn't keep them together. I really did try. I'm pretty depressed about it.

**Disclaimer: **I own no part of Sons of Anarchy.

* * *

**CHAPTER 32 (Epilogue)**:  
"I Could Have Lied," Red Hot Chili Peppers

Desi let herself into her apartment. She didn't bother to turn on a light. It was late, and she was tired, but she walked to her desk and opened her laptop. She and Frank had a Skype date, and that was a high point of her week.

She'd been living in Paris for almost two years now, and she was nicely settled. She'd bought a little café a couple of blocks from her apartment in the Bastille neighborhood. Running a café was a great deal different from running a punk club, but, except for the hours of operation, the basics were much the same. It was a successful business, if smaller than she'd been used to. Her whole life was smaller and quieter, but these days it suited her fine.

She had her friends, and she had her work. She had a cute little apartment in a building she owned. It was her first time being landlord of an apartment building, and residents were a more demanding lot than business tenants, but she worked well with people.

She'd never been back to the States. After what had happened at the warehouse, and then at the clubhouse, she'd left on the first available flight back to Paris the next day, checking bags she'd packed in Paris only a couple of days earlier.

She knew that she'd run scared. She'd known when she was doing it. By then there was no mistaking or ignoring her fear. What she'd done that day, what she seen in that warehouse, what she'd been threatened with, and what Tig had done that night—the weight of her wrongness for that life had crashed hard over her head. And she knew she wasn't strong enough to break away if she stayed close.

So she ran. For her safety, her identity, her power, her life, she ran.

And now, 22 months later, she could say that it had been the right call. She still missed him; she still loved him, even after that last night. He might even have been her one true love. In many ways, they'd been uniquely suited for each other. But she was not suited for the life of an old lady. Frank had told her to make it her own, and she'd briefly convinced herself that she could, but what she'd seen and learned that one day made it perfectly clear that it was no place for her.

She'd come to understand, too, that it was Tig who'd thrown her world off its axis. Not Raven. It was Tig who'd made her reckless and uncertain. Or rather, it was her feelings for him. Love, and her attempts to change herself to accommodate it, had thrown everything she knew about herself and the world into a blender. Once she got some real distance from the subject of those feelings, she was able to think clearly and understand something about herself that had never before been tested.

What she'd understood was that she truly did prefer control over connection. She'd always believed that she was open to love, that she would want it when it came. But she was not; she did not. Whatever that said about her as a person, when it came down to it, she was happier alone, with the reins of her own life firmly in her hands, and only her hands. She had friends, she had playmates. She had work. She had a rich, full life. Love was for romantics. She was not one.

Frank signed in while she was musing. "Hey, Des."

"Sweets! What's up?"

They chatted loosely, catching up. They nosed around the idea of Frank and Juice coming to Paris for a visit, but Juice was characteristically reluctant to be away for more than a few days. Finally, Desi asked a question she asked only rarely. She had not spoken to Tig since that night. Neither of them had ever tried to make contact again. But today she'd been thinking a lot about him, so she said, "And how is Tig?"

Frank sighed. "He's okay, Des. Just different. He shook the real bad phase off about a year ago, and he's been pretty much okay since. Juice says he still gets bad if he gets down to the bottom of a bottle, but I don't see that much. Look, I think you made the right call. Self-control is not his thing. It is your thing. You two were like nitroglycerin or something. That whole scene with the lockdown and whatever was just nuts, and what he did to you?" She stopped and shook off the thought. "Anyway, I've said all that before. Tig was broken for awhile, but he's never been all that together anyway. He's gonna be okay. He _is_ okay. And so are you. Okay?"

Desi laughed. "Okay, sweets. Give Juice my love."

"I will. Love you, Des."

"Love you, too."

Desi closed her laptop and went to draw herself a bath. She'd had a long day and had an early morning coming up. She was meeting with the owner of the building her café was in to discuss expanding into the property next door so that she could add a pâtisserie.

**THE END**

* * *

One more note of sincere, everlasting thanks to Simone Santos and MuckyShroom. Without them, I would have bailed on this story shortly after Raven burned Desi out. And several times thereafter.

And to the whole Freak Circle: You've changed my life. I love you guys.

Thank you to all my readers, whether you reviewed or not. Sorry, again, for not being able to keep them together.

If you're wondering what I'm doing next, at this point I'm not sure there will be a next.

* * *

** Final A/N (you might want to skip this):**

I want to write a little about what we call the Freak Circle, which is a group of writers who have met through each other's work and come together as friends. Something happened on this story's review page yesterday which makes me both happy and very, very sad.

Two clearly bullying—not negative, but bullying—anonymous reviews were left on this story. I usually delete any anonymous negative review, and I've explained elsewhere why (it has to do with the "anonymous" part). These I left up because they called out to the Freak Circle as a group (though it's bigger now than the names listed), and seemed to be torqued because we review each other's work.

We do indeed. That's how we found each other, because we were engaging so often with each other's work. And damn, I'm glad we found each other, because we have become true friends, spread as we are across the globe.

I'm not sure I understand why that's a bad thing, or why I got attacked because of it. I will admit that I was blindsided by it. I shouldn't be, I know. My skin should be thicker. It isn't. I was spun.

Okay. Again, I don't understand why the fact that friends read and comment regularly on each other's work is offensive. Seems like what friends should do to support each other. We are a scant few writers and readers, not making much of an impact in the world of fanfiction. There was a sense, I guess, that perhaps people are being led astray, expecting a better story based on the number of reviews. But I would think the number of reviews would only get you to the first chapter. After that, don't you keep reading, or stop reading, based on the quality of and your interest in the story itself? I've read the first chapter of a lot of stories with far more reviews than mine get and gone no further because it just wasn't my cuppa. I don't get pissed because a story I didn't like gets reviewed a lot.

Because my friends are wonderful and supportive, they have rushed to my—our—defense. The irony of those reviews complaining about review count while adding to that review count was not lost on any of us. And so, to address what was said, the Freaks actually _did_ pad the review count with extra reviews.

Now, heat is starting to rise on this review page about the way the Freaks defend each other and push back on negative reviews. I want to address that, too, because I do have strong opinions about anonymous reviews, and about harshly worded negative reviews, anonymous or not. I have especially strong opinions about reviews to which the author can't respond. I've shared those opinions before.

We writers are amateurs. We write for love. We share what we write because we love the camaraderie of the common bond of fandom. But we are not professional writers, and we are getting no compensation for sharing our work—which, trust me, is a lot of work. The only compensation we get is the camaraderie. The risk we take is vulnerability. I would argue that the price readers pay, conversely, is kindness. There is no place in fanfic for harsh reviews.

When a writer is left without any way to address an unkind review except an author's note, I will use the opportunity of my own review to defend her. Yes. We are _all_ entitled to our opinions.

Anyway. Thanks for reading, everyone, whether you reviewed or not.


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